of the narrow bed looking down at Miss Annie Spragg and then slowly, almost as if she was unconscious of the gesture, one of the gaunt ugly hands touched the beautiful hair with a curious gesture of reverence.
"She is not an old woman," said Sister Annunziata.
"She was like that when she came to me," said the janitress. "She cannot be young. She has been here for fifteen years. She has not changed much."
Then Sister Annunziata touched the brow, gently pushing back a little the thick fringe of hair. Then she listened to the breathing and while Signora Bardelli held the night light she bent over to look at the pale, tired eyelids.
"She is dying," said Sister Annunziata. "You had better go for Father Baldessare. I will stay with her." She knew all the signs. For twenty-five years she had sat at the side of the dying.
So the janitress went away again out into the hot night and Sister Annunziata closed the great shutters against the heat of the African wind. When she had done this she set about putting the room in order, lifting the bedraggled tweed suit and the battered old picture hat and veil from the only chair in the room. Then she sat by the side of the bed and reaching beneath the sheet felt the wrist of Miss Annie Spragg and knelt beside the bed to pray. It was not to God that she prayed or to the Virgin, but to Saint Francis of the Birds. He was her saint. He was more than that. He was to Sister Annunziata the only God who had ever existed. She prayed for a long time, commending to his care the
