“They’re mother-y sort of eyes,” said Jean, her thoughts suddenly flying to her own mother, in far-off New Zealand. “I wonder if that’s her little girl?”
A photograph smiled at them from a cheap frame on the wall—a little laughing child, taken in the stiff, conventional manner of the country photographer, yet dimpling into merriment as if at some suddenly happy thought.
“Oh!” said Norah. “What a dear little youngster! Isn’t she a darling!” She faced round as the door opened, and their hostess came in, bringing clean towels. “We’re just in love with this,” she said, indicating the photograph. “Is she your little girl?”
The woman put down the towels in silence. Her face was working, and before the misery in her eyes Jean and Norah shrank back aghast. There was a moment’s dreadful silence. Then she spoke in a strained, unnatural voice.
“She was—once,” she said. “But she’s dead. We lost her. She’s dead. Dead!” Suddenly she was gone, the door slamming behind her.
The girls looked at each other dumbly, horror-stricken.
“Oh, I say!” said Jean, presently. “Oh, weren’t we idiots! I’m so sorry we asked her.”
“Poor thing!” Norah said, her voice a shade unsteady. “Oh, poor thing! Did you see how terrible her eyes were?”
Jean nodded. “There couldn’t be anything more awful than to have a kiddie like that, and then for it to die,” she said. “No wonder she looks so—so hungry. I wish we hadn’t asked her.”
“So do I,” Norah said. “It must have hurt her dreadfully—and she’s been very kind to us. But how could we guess?”