We went next to visit Anne Barker, who was a widow with two daughters, one of whom was lame and confined to her bed and chair, while the other was one of the best girls in Margaret's school. We found the poor thing—Lois was her name—sitting up in her great three-cornered chair, trying to knit with two slender pegs which she had made from wood. She had partly learned the stitch from her sister, and was succeeding but indifferent well. I at once sat down by her and began to give her instruction, and she soon mastered the stitch, to her great delight. "Ah, poor maid, she is pleased enough!" said her mother. "She cannot take the spinning-wheel, and the net-making is too hard for her, so time hangs but heavily with her." "What was the cause of her malady?" asked my mother. "She was pisky-struck, madame. The very week after she was born, the careless woman who was with me went out and left us alone, and I asleep with an unchristened babe. I was waked by a great noise, as of something running up the wall, and the next minute I heard the babe scream, and there it lay on the ground. No doubt the piskies would have carried it off altogether, if I had not waked just in time. After that it never thrived, poor dear." "Perhaps is was hurt falling from the bed," I ventured to suggest. "But what made it fall? No, madame, it was the piskies. I had the luck to displease them by accidentally treading on a fairy ring, and no doubt they meant to have their revenge." "You did not see them?" "No, madame, but I heard them as plain as I hear you. A better maid than poor Lois never lived, though I say it that shouldn't, but she can do little for herself or any one else." "Can you read?" asked my mother of Lois. "No, madame," was the answer. "My sister hath taught me a little, but not to read a book." "And would you like to learn?" "Oh, yes indeed, madame. My father could read, and we have his great Bible. Dibby tells me what she hears parson read in church sometimes, and I often wish I could make it out for myself." We sat a little while longer and then took our leave, promising to come again. When we were outside the door, my mother remarked: "Well, Vevette, here is work come to your hand, and of the sort you like. Why should you not teach poor Lois to read?" "I was going to ask you if I might," said I. "And then, perhaps, I might have some of the others. Really and truly, maman, the walk is very hard and long for the little ones, especially in bad weather." "Well, well, we will see. Begin with poor Lois, at all events." So I did, the very next day. My proposal to teach her was received with rapture by both mother and daughter. I had always a knack of teaching, and I soon had Lois prosperously started upon a pair of hose, and able, with some help, to make out a chapter in the Testament. Besides, I read to her every day as a reward, and I shall never forget her delight over the stories in the Gospels. But a good many things happened in the meantime.