"It has been so long since I have heard your language." While she obeyed Joyce kept thinking of her Grandmother Ware.

She could see her outdoors among her flowers, the dahlias and touch-me-nots, the four-o'clocks and the cinnamon roses, taking such pride and pleasure in her sweet posy beds.

She could see her beside the little table on the shady porch, making tea for some old neighbor who had dropped in to spend the afternoon with her.

Or she was asleep in her armchair by the western window, her Bible in her lap and a smile on her sweet, kindly face.

How dreary and empty the days must seem to poor old Number Thirty-one, with none of these things to brighten them.
Joyce could scarcely keep the tears out of her voice while she talked.
Later, when Sister Denisa came back, Joyce was softly humming a lullaby, and Number Thirty-one, with a smile on her pitiful old face, was sleeping like a little child.
"You will come again, dear mademoiselle," said Sister Denisa, as she kissed the child good-by at the door.