"But how can she do it? She is blind!" exclaimed Amy.
"Oh, not all blind, and not always! She can see a little, though everything is dim, and the lace it is knitted,—not pillow lace, like some,—and she can make her fingers go, oh, so quickly! Ah, she has much talent, the little Yvonne, and you must hear her sing."
So Yvonne sang to them standing there in the middle of the room, without notes and unaccompanied, and the plaintiveness of the tone and the richness of the voice drew tears from the eyes of the three American girls, while father and mother and aunt were lost in admiration as they gazed at the slender figure in the pale pink gown.
Hardly had she finished when Martine, jumping up, impulsively threw her arms about Yvonne's neck.
"You must go back with me to the hotel. You must sing to me again. There is a melodeon in the parlor, and I will accompany you. Please, Mr. Babet, can she go back with us?"
"It is an honor for Yvonne," he replied politely; "I will ask her mother."
"Oh, let me; I will make her say 'Yes'"; and in a few words of rapid French Martine asked that Yvonne might go to the hotel as her guest, to stay to tea. The mother at once assented, and both of the silent women were in a flutter of excitement as they accompanied Yvonne to her bedroom to make some additions to her dress.
"Ah," said Alexandre, "she has never been inside the hotel; it will seem very grand to her."
Then Yvonne, kissing them all,—the mother, the aunt, and finally the tall father,—turned her back to the cottage, and with beaming face leaned on Martine's arm as Amy led the way.
A little distance down the road they saw a man standing by a gate.