ned to add that her heart 'ud be broke out an' out if
it wasn't for the taste o' baccy. Her neighbour opposite was equally
fond of snuff, and was usually to be heard lamenting how she had
r'ared a fine fam'ly o' boys an' girls, and how notwithstanding she
had ne'er a wan to buy her a ha'porth in her ould age. Now, however,
for a wonder she was silent, and even the woman nearest the door found
it too hot to brandish her distorted wrists, according to her custom
when she wished to excite compassion or to plead for alms. There would
be no visitors this morning; not the most compassionate of "the
ladies," who came to read to and otherwise cheer the poor sufferers of
St. Patrick's ward, would venture there on such a day.

The buzzing of the flies aforesaid, the occasional moans of the more
feeble patients, the hurried breathing of a poor girl in the last
stage of consumption were the only sounds to be heard, except for the
quiet footsteps and gentle voice of Sister Louise. There was something
refreshing in the very sight of this tall slight figure, in its
blue-grey habit and dazzling white "cornette," from beneath which the
dark eyes looked forth with sweet and almost childish directness.
Sister Louise was not indeed much more than a child in years, and
there were still certain inflections in her voice, an elasticity in
her movements, a something about her very hands, with their little
pink palms and dimpled knuckles, that betrayed the fact. But those
babyish hands had done good service since Sister Louise had left the
novitiate in the Rue du Bac two years before; that young voice had a
marvellous power of its own, and could exhort and reprove as well as
soothe and console, and when the blue-robed figure was seen flitting
up and down the ward smiles appeared on wan and sorrowful faces, and
querulous murmurs were hushed. Even to-day the patients nodded to her
languidly as she passed, observing with transitory cheerfulness that
they were kilt with the hate, or that it was terrible weather
entirely. One crone raised herself sufficiently to remark that it was
a fine thing for the counthry, glory be to God! which patriotic
sentiment won a smile from Sister Louise, but failed to awaken much
enthusiasm in any one else.

The Sister of Charity paused before a bed in which a little, very thin
old woman was coiled up with eyes half closed. Mrs. Brady was the
latest arrival at St. Patrick's ward, having indeed only "come in" on
the pr