She leaned over, and taking one of the thin, blue-veined hands in hers, patted it tenderly with her plump little fingers.
"I ought not to complain," said the trembling voice, still broken by sobs.

"We have food and shelter and sunshine and the sisters.

Ah, that little Sister Denisa, she is indeed a smile of God to us all.

But at seventy-three one wants more than a cup of coffee and a clean handkerchief.

One wants something besides a bed and being just Number Thirty-one among two hundred other paupers." "I am _so_ sorry!" exclaimed Joyce, with such heartfelt earnestness that the sobbing woman felt the warmth of her sympathy, and looked up with a brighter face.
"Talk to me," she exclaimed.