oved liquid. His wife did not drink it, and could not
make it, but as we could speak French, and had sent coffee, he felt sure
that we could compound the beverage, so dear to the French heart.

"The angels make coffee," he said, in his best patois, "otherwise what
would Heaven be?"

Both of the angels declared that the good man should have some coffee
without delay, but Sylvia said to me, that although she had not the
least idea how to make it, she was quite sure Sister Agatha could do it.
But that sister, when asked, declared that she knew nothing about
coffee, and did not approve of it for sick people, but if the man did
not like the tea his wife made, she would try what she could do.

But this offer was declined. The old man must have his coffee, and as
there was no one else to make it, I undertook to do it myself. I thought
I remembered how coffee had been made, when I had been camping out, and
I went promptly to work. Everybody helped. The old woman ground the
berries, Sister Agatha stirred up the fire, and Sylvia broke two eggs,
in order to get shells enough to clear the liquid.

It was a good while before the coffee was ready, but at last it was
made, and Sylvia carried it to our patient in a great bowl. She sat down
on one side of the bed to administer the smoking beverage with a spoon,
while I sat on the other side and raised the old man's head that he
might drink the better. After swallowing the first tablespoonful, the
patient winked.

"I hope it did not scald his throat," said Sylvia, "Do you know what
'scald' is in French?"

"I cannot remember," said I, "you had better let the next spoonful cool
a little,"--but the patient opened his mouth for more.

"_C'est potage_," he said, "_mais il est bon_."

"I am sorry I made soup of it," I said to Sylvia, "but I am sure it
tastes like coffee."

We continued to feed the old man, who absorbed the new-fangled broth as
fast as it was given to him, until a voice behind me made us both jump.

"Sister Hagar," said the voice, "what does this mean?"

"Goodness, Mother Anastasia," cried Sylvia, "you made me scald the
outside of his throat."

At the foot of the bed stood Mother Anastasia clad in her severest gray,
her brows knit and her lips close pressed.

"Sister Hagar," she repeated, "what is all this?"

I let down the old man's head, and Sylvia, placing the almost empty bowl
upon the table, replied serenely:--

"Mr. Vanderley is making a beginning in bro