"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 brotherhood work--the brotherhood of the House of Martha, you know. I think it would work splendidly. Just look around and see what he has done. He has made this charming cottage out of an old rattle-trap house. Everything you see in one afternoon, and lots of provisions in the kitchen besides. Sisters alone could never have done this." Mother Anastasia turned to me. "I will speak with you, outside," she said, and I followed her into the little yard. As soon as we were far enough from the house to speak without being overheard, she stopped, and turning to me, said:--