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."

Her words ended in a wail, and she sank back on her pillow. "And this is
my birthday," she went on. "Seventy-three years old, and a pauper, cast
out to the care of strangers."

The tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks, and her mouth trembled
pitifully. Joyce was distressed; she looked around for Sister Denisa,
but saw that they were alone, they two, in the great bare dormitory,
with its long rows of narrow white cots. The child felt utterly helpless