"That means 'good-morning,'" whispered Gladys, "I know that. Say it, Roger."
Why Roger was to "say it" and not herself I cannot tell. Some unintelligible sound came from Roger's lips, for which Gladys hastened to apologise.
"He's trying to say 'good-morning' in French," she explained, completely forgetting that poor Madame Nestor could not understand her.
"Ah, my little dears," said the old woman—in her own language of course—"I wish I could know what you say. Ah, how sweet they are! Both together in one bed, like two little birds in a nest. And have you slept well, my darlings? and are you hungry?"
The children stared at each other, and at their old hostess.
"Alas," she repeated, "they do not understand. But they will soon know what I mean when they see the nice bowls of hot chocolate."
"Chocolate!" exclaimed both children. At last there was a word they could understand. Madame Nestor was quite overcome with delight.
"Yes, my angels, chocolate," she repeated, nodding her head. "The little servant is bringing it. But it was not she that made it. Oh, no! It was myself who took care it should be good. But you must have some light," and she went to the window, which had a curtain drawn before it, and outside heavy old-fashioned wooden shutters. No wonder in November that but little light came through. It was rather a marvel that at eight o'clock in the morning even a "tiny weeny inch" had begun to make its way.
With some difficulty the old woman removed all the obstructions, and then such poor light as there was came creeping in. But first she covered the two children up warmly, so that the cold air when the window was opened should not get to them.