happen next?

"Then," said Sister Tobias, "we heard the dreadfullest scream. 'Mother!'
just once, and after it dead silence. Then--I don't know how we got there,
it was so like a cruel dream--but we were in the chapel, trying to raise
them up. That dear Saint--may the Peace of God and the Bliss of His Vision
be upon her for ever!--lay dead on the altar-steps where the wicked,
murdering hand had shot her down.... And the child lay across her, just
where she had dropped in trying to lift her. And the strength of me and
the Sister, and the strength of them that came after, wasn't equal to
unloose those slender little hands you're watching."

The slender little hands were busy with the slate and pencil as Saxham
looked at them.

"Those that came and helped us had been sent on from the Convent
bombproof, where they'd been to look for _her_"--Sister Tobias glanced
sorrowfully at the owner of those little busy hands--"with an Ambulance
chair and a story of more trouble. But Our Lady had had pity on the child.
She was past understanding why they'd come to fetch her.... The brain can
soak up trouble till it won't hold a drop more. But she was quiet and
happy kneeling by that blessed Saint, waiting till the Lady should wake
up, she said.... And, 'deed and 'deed, but it looked like the blessedest
sleep----"

Sister Tobias broke down and cried outright. The child eyed her half
suspiciously, half wonderingly. Her great terrified eyes had not seen the
man strike, but he must have hurt the woman. Therefore, she looked sharply
at the man between the tangled masses of the hair that could not be kept
pinned up, and saw two great slow tears ooze over his thick underlids, and
glitter as they hung there, and then fall. Others followed them, tumbling
down the square white face, and the stern mouth was wrenched with a
strange spasm, and the grim chin trembled curiously....

Somebody had hurt the man.... It is not possible to follow up the workings
of the disordered intelligence, and spell out the blurred letters of the
confused mind. It is enough that her terror of him abated. She slipped
from her stool to the floor, under the pretence of picking up her
slate-pencil, threw back the hair that prevented her seeing clearly, and
peered up in that working face of Saxham's with curiosity, crouching near.
She did not recoil violently when the strange, sorrowful face bent
towards her; she only shrank back as Saxham asked:

"You remember me? You