excellent hotel, “The Windsor,” a little low carriage, drawn by a donkey, standing before the door, with the words “petite sœurs des pauvres” printed upon the linen covering, which was stretched upon bows over the carriage. A young girl, dressed in a costume similar to that worn by the French Sisters of Charity, stepped lightly from the little vehicle, and entered the hotel. I hastened down, certain that she was precisely “the little sister” whose history I knew. I found her sitting silently, waiting by the door, in a large saloon. No one could imagine a more pleasing exterior, a more modest, or more attractive demeanor. Her call at the hotel that day was expected, and a subscription had been made there, preparatory to it. Her silent presence sufficed as prayer and admonition, and her little donkey went away, no doubt, heavily-laden for the aged.
The following day, I visited them in their new home, and during their hour of dinner. They were seated at a well-arranged table, clean in their own persons, and well-dressed. The meal consisted of substantial and savoury beef-soup, veal, and boiled rice; and each person had a good glass of beer. The little sisters waited upon them; and every thing was done with perfect order and quietness. I went round the old women's table, and asked various of them, how they were satisfied? “Tolerably,” replied some, with an air of condescension; several, that they were very well content: “that they had not any thing to complain about,” and so on. But when they spoke of the little sisters, their mode of expression became warmer and more heart-felt. The men seemed, upon the
