"He is very quiet and very patient," said Sylvia to me in an undertone,--and it is impossible for me to describe how delightful it was to have her speak to me in such a confidential undertone,--"he doesn't talk any," she continued, "and doesn't seem to care to have anybody read to him, for when Sister Agatha tried that yesterday, he went to sleep; but he likes his brow bathed, and I can sit on this side of his bed and do that, and you can find a chair and sit on the other side, and tell me more about your plan of brotherhood." There was no other chair, but I found a box, on which I seated myself on the other side of the old man's cot, while Sylvia, taking a bottle from her pocket, proceeded to dampen the forehead of the patient with its pleasantly scented contents. I did not much like to see her doing this, nor did I care to discuss our projects over the body of this rheumatic laborer. "It strikes me," I said, "that it would be a good idea to put on that bay rum, or cologne, or whatever it is, with a clean paint-brush, or something of the kind. Don't you dislike using your fingers?" Sylvia laughed. "You have lots to learn yet," she said, "before you can be a brother; and now tell me what particular kind of work you think the brothers would do. I hardly think nursing would suit them very well." I did not immediately answer, and Sylvia's quick mind divined the reason of my reluctance. "Let us talk _en francais_," she said; "that will not disturb this good man, and he can go to sleep if he likes." "_Tres bien_," I said, "_parlons nous en francais_." "_Il serait charmant_," said she; "_j'aime la belle langue_." The old man turned his head from one to the other of us; all his placidity vanished, and he exclaimed,-- "_Ciel! Voila les anges l'un et l'autre qui vient parler ma chere langue._" "Good gracious!" exclaimed Sylvia, "I thought he was Irish." The patient now took the talking business into his own hands, and in his dear language told us his tale of woe. It was a very ordinary tale, and its dolefulness was relieved by the old man's delight at finding people who could talk to him like Christians. One of his woes was that he had not been long enough married to his wife to teach her much French. "I wish," interpolated Sylvia to me, "that we had kept on in English. It would have been much more satisfactory. I expect one of the other sisters will be here before very long, and before she comes I wish you would tell me how you are getting on with your book. I have been thinking about it, ever and ever so much." "I am not getting on at all," said I; "without you there will be no book." At this Sylvia knit her brows a little, and looked disturbed.