Eva had gone upstairs to the schoolroom, now transformed into a sitting-room for the refugees, and had knocked softly at the door.

No one answered and she stood for a moment irresolute. Then the sound of a sobbing voice fell on her ear, "Mireille! Mireille!" ... The despair of it wrung her heart. With sudden resolve she turned the handle and went in.

Under the green-shaded electric light a picture almost biblical in its poetic tragedy presented itself to her eyes. The youngest of the refugees, the child, with her long hair loosened—and it fell like golden water on either side of her white face—stood motionless as a statue under the lamp-shine, gazing straight before her, straight, indeed, into the eyes of Eva as she halted spell-bound on the threshold. Kneeling at the child's feet, with her back to the door, was the eldest one of the three, her long black garments spreading round her, her arms stretched upwards in a despairing embrace of that motionless childish figure; her head was thrown forward on her arm and it was her sobbing voice that Eva had heard. Standing beside her holding a little golden crucifix in her clasped and upraised hands, stood the other girl—the girl who had smiled—and she was praying: "Sainte Vierge, aidez-nous! MÈre de Dieu, faites le miracle!" Unmoved, unseeing, unhearing the little girl they were praying for stood like a statue, her wide, unseeing eyes fixed before her as in a trance.

With sorrow and pity throbbing in her heart Eva slipped back into the passage again, closing the door softly behind her. After a moment's uncertainty she knocked at the door once more, this time more loudly. A voice answered timidly, "Entrez."

They were all three standing now, but the tears still fell down the cheeks of the eldest one, who had quickly risen from her knees.

"May I come in?" asked Eva timidly. "I thought I should like to come and talk with you a little."

The second one, who understood English, came forward at once with a wan and grateful smile. "Thank you. Please come," she said. And Eva entered and closed the door.

There was a pause; then Eva put out her hand shyly and stiffly to the eldest one; "Don't cry," she said.

Surely no other words so effectively open the flood-gates of tears! Even though they were spoken in a tongue foreign to her, the stricken woman understood them and her tears flowed anew.

"Loulou, Loulou, ne pleure pas!" cried the younger girl, and turning to Eva she explained: "She cries because of her child"—she pointed to the little spectre—"who will not speak to her."

"Is she really dumb?" asked Eva, in awed tones, gazing at the seraphic little face, dazed and colourless as a washed-out fresco of Frate Angelico.

"We do not know. She has not spoken for more than a month." The girl's gentle voice broke in a sob. "She does not seem to know us or to hear us." She went over to the child and caressed her cheek. "Mireille, petite Mireille! dis bonsoir À la jolie dame!"

But Mireille was silent, staring with her vacant eyes at what no one could see.

Eva stepped forward, trembling a little, and took the child's limp hand in hers. "Mireille," she said. The blue eyes were turned full upon her for an instant, then they wavered and wandered away. "What has happened to her? What made her like this?" asked Eva, in a low voice.

"Fear," replied the girl, her lips tightening. And she said no more.

"Fear of what?" insisted Eva, with the unconscious cruelty of youth and kindness.

"The Germans came to our house," faltered the girl; "they ... they frightened her." Again her quivering lips closed tightly; a wave of crimson flooded her delicate face. Then the colour faded quickly, leaving behind it a waxen pallor and a deep shadow round her eyes.

"Were they unkind to her? Did they hurt her?" gasped Eva, and for the first time, as she gazed at that motionless child figure, her startled soul seemed to realize the meaning of war.

"No; they did not hurt her. They did nothing to her. But she was frightened" ... her arm went round the child's drooping shoulders, "and because she cried they ... they bound her ... to an iron railing...."

"They bound her to an iron railing!... How cruel, how wicked!" cried Eva.

"Yes, they were cruel," said the girl, and a terrified look came into her eyes. She moved back a little, nearer to the other woman, the tall black figure that stood silent, looking down at the glowing embers of the fire. She had neither moved nor spoken since Eva had entered the room.

Eva continued her questioning.

"And were you frightened, too?"

"Yes. I was frightened."

"What did you do? Did you run away?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. I don't remember anything."

Such terror and anguish was there in the lovely girlish face, that Eva dared to ask no more.

"Forgive me," she stammered; "I ought not to have made you speak about it. Forgive me—Mademoiselle." She placed her hand timidly on the girl's arm. "Or may I call you 'ChÉrie'?"