Some of Joyce's happiest days had been spent in her grandmother's country home, and the host of happy memories that she had stored up during those visits served to sweeten all her after life.
Old age, to Joyce, was associated with the most beautiful things that she had ever known: the warmest hospitality, the tenderest love, the cheeriest home-life.

Strangers were in the old place now, and Grandmother Ware was no longer living, but, for her sake, Joyce held sacred every wrinkled face set round with snow-white hair, just as she looked tenderly on all old-fashioned flowers, because she had seen them first in her grandmother's garden.
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.