Sister Denisa led the way into a large, sunny room, and Joyce looked around eagerly.  It was crowded with old men.  Some were sitting idly on the benches around the walls, or dozing in chairs near the stove.  Some smoked, some gathered around the tables where games of checkers and chess were going on; some gazed listlessly out of the windows.  It was good to see how dull faces brightened, as Sister Denisa passed by with a smile for this group, a cheery word for the next.  She stopped to brush the hair back from the forehead of an old paralytic, and pushed another man gently aside, when he blocked the way, with such a sweet-voiced “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.  “I am needed up-stairs,” said Sister Denisa, turning to Joyce.  “Will you come up and see the sleeping-rooms?”

They went up the freshly scrubbed steps to a great dormitory, where, against the bare walls, stood long rows of narrow cots.  They were all empty, except one at the farthest end, where an old woman lay with her handkerchief across her eyes.

“Poor old Number Thirty-one!” said Sister Denisa.  “She seems to feel her unhappy position more than any one in the house.  The most of them are thankful for mere bodily comfort,—­satisfied with food and shelter and warmth; but she is continually pining for her old home surroundings.  Will you not come and speak to her in English?  She married a countryman of yours, and lived over thirty years in America.  She speaks of that time as the happiest in her life.  I am sure that you can give her a great deal of pleasure.”