"It is a veritable miracle," she said, "see this beautiful white fence, and the gate; it opens on hinges!"
"Be careful," said I, as they entered the little yard, "some of the paint may yet be wet, although I told them to put as much drying stuff in as was possible."
"Actually," cried Sylvia, "a gravel walk up to the house!"
"And the outside a daffodil yellow, with fern green blinds!" said Sister Agatha.
"And the eaves tipped with geranium red!" cried Sylvia.
"And a real tree on each side of the front door, and new steps!" exclaimed Sister Agatha.
When they entered the house the amazement and delight of the two sisters was a joy to my soul. They cried out at the carpet on the floor, the paper on the walls, the tables, the chairs, the bureau, the looking-glass, the three framed lithographs on the wall, the clock, and the shining new bedstead on which their patient lay.
"If Mother Anastasia could but see this," cried Sylvia, "she would believe in the brotherhood."
"He sez yer angels," said the woman of the house, coming forward, "that's what he sez; an' he's roight too, for with thim Pepper Pod Plasters, an' the smell of paint in the house which he hates, he'll be out o' doors in two days, or I'm much mishtaken."
Sylvia and I now approached the old man to see what he thought about it. He was very grateful, and said nothing about the smell of paint, but we found him with a burning desire in his heart which had been fanned into flames by the arrival of the groceries on the day before. He eagerly asked us if we could make coffee; when he was well he could make it himself, but since he had been lying on that bed, he had not tasted a drop of the beloved 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.