The tangled gray hair and grimy face of a hideous old woman showed themselves slowly at the end of the passage, rising from the strong-smelling obscurity of the kitchen regions.  “What do you want?” said the half-seen witch of the London slums.  “Does Madame Marillac live here?” Stella asked.  “Do you mean the foreigner?” “Yes.”  “Second door.”  With those instructions the upper half of the witch sank and vanished.  Stella gathered her skirts together, and ascended a filthy flight of stairs for the first time in her life.

Coarse voices, shameless language, gross laughter behind the closed doors of the first floor hurried her on her way to the rooms on the higher flight.  Here there was a change for the better—­here, at least, there was silence.  She knocked at the door on the landing of the second floor.  A gentle voice answered, in French; “Entrez!”—­then quickly substituted the English equivalent, “Come in!” Stella opened the door.

The wretchedly furnished room was scrupulously clean.  Above the truckle-bed, a cheap little image of the Virgin was fastened to the wall, with some faded artificial flowers arranged above it in the form of a wreath.  Two women, in dresses of coarse black stuff, sat at a small round table, working at the same piece of embroidery.  The elder of the two rose when the visitor entered the room.  Her worn and weary face still showed the remains of beauty in its finely proportioned parts—­her dim eyes rested on Stella with an expression of piteous entreaty.  “Have you come for the work, madam?” she asked, in English, spoken with a strong foreign accent.  “Pray forgive me; I have not finished it yet.”

The second of the two workwomen suddenly looked up.

She, too, was wan and frail; but her eyes were bright; her movements still preserved the elasticity of youth.  Her likeness to the elder woman proclaimed their relationship, even before she spoke.  “Ah! it’s my fault!” she burst out passionately in French.  “I was hungry and tired, and I slept hours longer than I ought.  My mother was too kind to wake me and set me to work.  I am a selfish wretch—­and my mother is an angel!” She dashed away the tears gathering in her eyes, and proudly, fiercely, resumed her work.

Stella hastened to reassure them, the moment she could make herself heard.  “Indeed, I have nothing to do with the work,” she said, speaking in French, so that they might the more readily understand her.  “I came here, Madame Marillac—­if you will not be offended with me, for plainly owning it—­to offer you some little help.”

“Charity?” asked the daughter, looking up again sternly from her needle.

“Sympathy,” Stella answered gently.

The girl resumed her work.  “I beg your pardon,” she said; “I shall learn to submit to my lot in time.”

The quiet long-suffering mother placed a chair for Stella.  “You have a kind beautiful face, miss,” she said; “and I am sure you will make allowances for my poor girl.  I remember the time when I was as quick to feel as she is.  May I ask how you came to hear of us?”