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.