but she invariably hastened to add that her heart ‘ud be broke out an’ out if it wasn’t for the taste o’ baccy.  Her neighbour opposite was equally fond of snuff, and was usually to be heard lamenting how she had r’ared a fine fam’ly o’ boys an’ girls, and how notwithstanding she had ne’er a wan to buy her a ha’porth in her ould age.  Now, however, for a wonder she was silent, and even the woman nearest the door found it too hot to brandish her distorted wrists, according to her custom when she wished to excite compassion or to plead for alms.  There would be no visitors this morning; not the most compassionate of “the ladies,” who came to read to and otherwise cheer the poor sufferers of St. Patrick’s ward, would venture there on such a day.

The buzzing of the flies aforesaid, the occasional moans of the more feeble patients, the hurried breathing of a poor girl in the last stage of consumption were the only sounds to be heard, except for the quiet footsteps and gentle voice of Sister Louise.  There was something refreshing in the very sight of this tall slight figure, in its blue-grey habit and dazzling white “cornette,” from beneath which the dark eyes looked forth with sweet and almost childish directness.  Sister Louise was not indeed much more than a child in years, and there were still certain inflections in her voice, an elasticity in her movements, a something about her very hands, with their little pink palms and dimpled knuckles, that betrayed the fact.  But those babyish hands had done good service since Sister Louise had left the novitiate in the Rue du Bac two years before; that young voice had a marvellous power of its own, and could exhort and reprove as well as soothe and console, and when the blue-robed figure was seen flitting up and down the ward smiles appeared on wan and sorrowful faces, and querulous murmurs were hushed.  Even to-day the patients nodded to her languidly as she passed, observing with transitory cheerfulness that they were kilt with the hate, or that it was terrible weather entirely.  One crone raised herself sufficiently to remark that it was a fine thing for the counthry, glory be to God! which patriotic sentiment won a smile from Sister Louise, but failed to awaken much enthusiasm in any one else.

The Sister of Charity paused before a bed in which a little, very thin old woman was coiled up with eyes half closed.  Mrs. Brady was the latest arrival at St. Patrick’s ward, having indeed only “come in” on the preceding day, and Sister Louise thought she would very likely need a little cheering.

“How are you to-day, Mrs. Brady!” she asked, bending over her.

“Why then indeed, ma’am—­is it ma’am or Mother I ought to call ye?”

“’Sister’—­we are all Sisters here, though some of the people call Sister Superior ‘Reverend Mother.’”

“Ah, that indeed?” said Mrs. Brady, raising herself a little in the bed and speaking with great dignity, “Ye see yous are not the sort o’ nuns I’m used to, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t altogether spake the way I ought.  Our nuns down in the Queen’s County has black veils ye know, ma’am—­Sisther I mane—­an’ not that kind of a white bonnet that you have on your head.”