She comes up here to bed whenever she can find the
slightest ache for an excuse, just to be by herself. I wish that we
could give her a little spot that she could call her own, and shut the
door on, and feel alone. But it cannot be," she added, with a sigh. "It
taxes our strength to the utmost to give them all even a bare home."
By this time they had reached the cot, over the head of which hung a
card, bearing the number "Thirty-one."
"Here is a little friend to see you, grandmother," said Sister Denisa,
placing a chair by the bedside, and stooping to smooth back the locks of
silvery hair that had strayed out from under the coarse white night-cap.
Then she passed quickly on to her other duties, leaving Joyce to begin
the conversation as best she could. The old woman looked at her sharply
with piercing dark eyes, which must have been beautiful in their youth.
The intense gaze embarrassed Joyce, and to break the silence she
hurriedly stammered out the first thing that came to her mind.
"Are you ill, to-day?"
The simple question had a startling effect on the old woman. She raised
herself on one elbow, and reached out for Joyce's hand, drawing her
eagerly nearer. "Ah," she cried, "you speak the language that my husband
taught me to love, and the tongue my little children lisped; but they
are all dead now, and I've come back to my native land to find no home
but the one that charity provides.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92