I asked where she suffered the most pain. “ In my head, ma’am ; it has been so ever since I can remember 
— sometimes better, sometimes worse : but I will sing you a song if you please, for helping me to gather 
this pretty nosegay.” 
It was useless my requesting her to desist from the exertion, she began without heeding my remon- 
strance, and as if it were the return she habitually made for kindness, warbling the words of a bygone and 
very beautiful ballad. An attempt at sentimental description, when speaking of this poor creature, would 
be ludicrous and unfeeling; yet her voice was so low and touching, and so full of gentle pathos, that as I 
listened to the plaintive strain and the old sad words, many painful but treasured memories were called up, 
and I could not restrain my tears. 
Unfortunately 1 had no money about me, nor could I succeed in prevailing on the songstress to call at 
my home, which I found she must pass on returning to her temporary lodging. ‘She disliked entering any 
house, unless obliged;’ but she promised to be there again to-morrow, where the blue-bells grew, and when 
the lengthening shadows of the pale autumnal afternoon would mark the time for her. 
Her story, as she told it to me, was a short and simple one, and yet not commonplace; nor could I 
doubt its truth for a moment, for ‘the eye never deceives.’ 
She had been an orphan since the age of sixteen. Her father, who was a woodman, had been killed by 
an accident before her birth when engaged in felling trees in the New Forest. The widow supported herself 
and her child by singing about the country, and working in the fields when she could get work to do ; for as 
the daughter of a wandering Welsh harpist, the gift of song and the love of roving were in her hereditary. 
The unhappy circumstances, however, attending the birth of her infant had fallen heavily on the little inno- 
cent, occasioning, it was supposed, some organic derangement of the complex vessels of the head, and owing 
to the ignorant treatment of quacks, to whom her mother resorted, and a fall received in early infancy, 
making her, in her own sad words, “ What you see, ma’am.” 
When her mother died, a benevolent physician to whom her case became known, had given her a re- 
commendation to a London hospital, defraying her expenses thither ; naturally concluding that clever and 
multiplied advice, together with care and judicious management, might do much towards effecting a cure, or 
at any rate ameliorating her condition. “ But after a long time,” she added, “all the doctors agreed that 
my case was an incurable one, and that fresh air and perfect freedom were the only things they could re- 
commend as likely to ease my pain.” 
She told me the name of the worthy practitioner who had originally befriended her, and who had con- 
tinued to allow her a small sum weekly, sufficient for her maintenance, until two years previous to this 
period, when death had deprived the orphan cripple of her benefactor. 
Since then, walking all over England and Wales, she had supported herself by singing, when able to do 
so, and by the gifts of the charitable. The open air was as necessary and nutritious to her as daily food, 
while her childish delight in gathering wild flowers formed the sole recreation and solace of her lonely exist- 
ence — lonely as that of the lepers of old. 
The outcast added in a gentle deprecatory tone, but far removed from the whine of the common men- 
dicant, and putting her hand involuntarily on her bandaged brow, “ God is very good to me, for I have 
never wanted ; and though He sees fit to send me pain, yet with the pain there is healing, for I often forget 
all when I look upon the beautiful things of His making. Indeed I am very happy ; for if such fair flowers 
are to be found on earth, where the birds sing and the waters are so clear, and the trees are so grand, how 
much more beautiful our home in heaven will be !” 
“ But are we so sure of seeing heaven ?” I hesitatingly said, wishing to hear the answer. Her answer 
was a silent smile, but a serious and solemn one, only faintly lighting up her pallid suffering countenance ; 
and when I parted with her, it was in the earnest and full conviction that this destitute cripple was indeed, 
as she affirmed, very happy ; and passing rich also in the possession of the priceless graces of patient cheer- 
fulness, resignation, and faith. 
This little adventure had given me a lesson and administered a reproof, which all discontented and 
repining individuals may not have the good fortune to encounter so opportunely. For my own part, the 
light of that poor cripple’s smile is to this day upon my heart ; and in the midst of all the sorrows and 
anxieties of life, whether real or imaginary, my harassed thoughts often flit away to employ themselves hap- 
pily and beneficially in — gathering flowers. 
