"It is for joy that I weep," she exclaimed,
"that poor madame should have come to her own again. See the change that
has already been made in her by the blessed news."
Joyce looked down the corridor as monsieur hurried forward to meet the
old lady coming towards them, and to offer his arm. Hope had
straightened the bowed figure; joy had put lustre into her dark eyes and
strength into her weak frame. She walked with such proud stateliness
that the other inmates of the home looked up at her in surprise as she
passed. She was no more like the tearful, broken-spirited woman who had
lived among them so long, than her threadbare dress was like the elegant
mantle which monsieur had brought to fold around her.
Joyce had brought a handful of roses to Sister Denisa, who caught them
up with a cry of pleasure, and held them against her face as if they
carried with them some sweetness of another world.
Madame came up then, and, taking the nun in her arms, tried to thank her
for all that she had done, but could find no words for a gratitude so
deep, and turned away, sobbing.
They said good-by to Sister Denisa,--brave Little Sister of the Poor,
whose only joy was the pleasure of unselfish service; who had no time to
even stand at the gate and be a glad witness of other people's Christmas
happiness, but must hurry back to her morning task of dealing out coffee
and clean handkerchiefs to two hundred old paupers.
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