The presentation was so good that the Esther Costello story was bound to catch alight again. It made, mainly, a local sensation, but within those limits it took the town by storm.

Most people – like Harry Grant – had thought that Esther had either gone back to Ireland, or was hidden away in the decent obscurity of an orphanage or an institution; to learn that the woman who had befriended her in the first place, and had been defeated, had not given up but had won her fight in another way, touched the public heart upon a tender nerve. There was a solid and persuasive press follow-up – interviews, leaders, more photographs. There were letters to the papers; there was an ‘Esther Costello Christmas Fund’ which, though modest in scope, provided toys and Christmas parties for a number of local blind children. The Institute where Esther and Mrs Bannister had originally studied, benefited under at least four wills. Mrs Bannister talked on the radio, Harry Grant wrote three more articles. On the lunatic fringe, Esther signed some autographs, and received, by post, five proposals – two of them for marriage. In Massachusetts, at least, the story and the people involved were favourite public property.

A few weeks later, Mrs Bannister returned home from shopping to find some unusual visitors waiting for her. They were two nuns, sitting side by side, uncertainly, on the edge of her couch. There was an old one and a young one: forty years separated them, but they were alike in shyness, softness of voice, and determination.

The old one came straight to the point – or so she seemed to think.

“It’s our Day,” she began, as if that single word ‘day’ would explain the whole thing. “The Wednesday after Easter Sunday. All the parents come, and we have speeches. We want you to be there – and Esther too, perhaps – and tell us your story.”

Mrs Bannister, not at a loss, but puzzled, asked where they came from. The explanations, spoken alternately by the old and the young nun, took some time, but finally the matter was made clear. They were from a local convent school, St Joseph’s: each year they held, after Easter, a sort of parents’ day, when someone – the bishop, or a famous visitor – made a speech and presented prizes. This year, having read about Mrs Bannister, they wanted her, and only her, to come along and tell her story, which to them signified love and faith at its most triumphant. Perhaps, repeated the young nun, Mrs Bannister could bring Esther as well, to show the miracle for all to see.

“For it is a miracle,” said the old nun, chiming in. “She had nothing – and now she can speak. How old is the little one?”

“Sixteen,” answered Mrs Bannister. She was thinking hard. Though she did not dislike the idea, and indeed found it attractive, a public appearance of this sort was a new thing, and still far out of her line. Press interviews were easy, radio a matter of a prepared script; but a public speech – on a platform, with a crowd of people watching and commenting – was an advance into unknown country. She looked at the nuns: at their long skirts, dusty, old-fashioned shoes, folded hands, odd headdresses that hid all that women might be proud to show. The young one was pretty, the old one amiable in maturity. For a moment she felt rebellious and resentful – they were so far out of touch with life, and yet now they wanted to embrace it, at second hand, in its most up-to-date form, they wished to eat and drink the latest headlines.