"Pardon, little father," that it was like a caress. One white-haired old
fellow, in his second childhood, reached out and caught at her dress, as
she passed by.

Crossing a porch where were more old men sitting sadly alone, or walking
sociably up and down in the sunshine, Sister Denisa passed along a court
and held the door open for Joyce to enter another large room.

"Here is the rest of our family," she said. "A large one, is it not? Two
hundred poor old people that nobody wants, and nobody cares what
becomes of."

Joyce looked around the room and saw on every hand old age that had
nothing beautiful, nothing attractive. "Were they beggars when they were
little?" she asked.

"No, indeed," answered the nun. "That is the saddest part of it to me.
Nearly all these poor creatures you see here once had happy homes of
their own. That pitiful old body over by the stove, shaking with palsy,
was once a gay, rich countess; the invalid whom madame visits was a
marquise. It would break your heart, mademoiselle, to hear the stories
of some of these people, especially those who have been cast aside by
ungrateful children, to whom their support has become a burden. Several
of these women have prosperous grandchildren, to whom we have appealed
in vain. There is no cruelty that hurts me like such cruelty to
old age."

Just then another nun came into the room, said something to Sister
Denisa in a low voice, and glided out like a silent shadow, her rosary
swaying back and forth with every movement of her clinging black skirts.