There was a sound of weeping in the room, but we sang on, earnestly, line after line, just as we had played.
Suddenly a hand was laid on each of our heads, and we looked up to see an old priest standing by us. He motioned for us to be silent, and went on to the corner where the child lay on the bed with the woman on her knees beside her, her face buried in the tiny dress.
"My daughter?" he said, inquiringly.
The pretty gay head came up with a start. The red cheeks were disfigured with weeping.
"She's gone, father!" the woman cried.
She dragged herself around, still on her knees, and laid her head against his hand.
"I've tried so hard to be good, father. Ever since you talked to me I've tried and I've tried. You know I have. But it's no use. No use. Everything goes wrong with me. And now my Amy's gone!"
She burst into tears again, her words becoming incoherent from grief, and sobbed wildly, her head falling back against the bed.
"Where did these children come from?" the priest demanded, sternly.