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.
"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.
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