“Oh dear! there are a great many if you’ll only look for them. I dare say you’ll make me up as many as twenty different kinds.” “Will you reckon daisies, mother?” “To be sure; they are just as pretty as any.” “Oh, if you’ll reckon such as them, I dare say I can bring you more than twenty.” So off he ran; his mother watching him till he was out of sight, and then she returned to her work. In about two hours he came back, his pale cheeks looking quite rosy, and his eyes quite bright. His country walk, taken with cheerful spirits, had done him all the good his mother desired, and had restored his usually even, happy temper. “Look, mother! here are three-and-twenty different kinds; you said I might count all, so I have even counted this thing like a nettle with lilac flowers, and this little common blue thing.” “Robin-run-in-the-hedge is its name,” said his mother. “It’s very pretty if you look at it close. One, two, three”—she counted them all over, and there really were three-and-twenty. She went to reach down the best jug. “Mother,” said little Tom, “do you like them very much?” “Yes, very much,” said she, not understanding his meaning. He was silent, and gave a little sigh. “Why, my dear?” “Oh, only—it does not signify if you like them very much; but I thought how nice it would be to take them to lame Harry, who can never walk so far as the fields, and can hardly know what summer is like, I think.” “Oh, that will be very nice; I am glad you thought of it.” Lame Harry was sitting by himself, very patiently, in a neighbouring cellar. He was supported by his daughter’s earnings; but as she worked in a factory, he was much alone. If the bunch of flowers had looked pretty in the fields, they looked ten times as pretty in the cellar to which they were now carried. Lame Harry’s eyes brightened up with pleasure at the sight; and he began to talk of the times long ago, when he was a little boy in the country, and had a corner of his father’s garden to call his own, and grow lad’s-love and wall-flower in. Little Tom put them in water for him, and put the jug on the table by him; on which his daughter had placed the old Bible, worn with much reading, although treated with careful reverence. It was lying open, with Harry’s horn spectacles put in to mark the place. “I reckon my spectacles are getting worn out; they are not so clear as they used to be; they are dim-like before my eyes, and it hurts me to read long together,” said Harry. “It’s a sad miss to me. I never thought the time long when I could read; but now I keep wearying for the day to be over, though the nights, when I cannot sleep for my legs paining me, are almost as bad. However, it’s the Lord’s will.” “Would you like me—I cannot read very well aloud, but I’d do my best, if you’d like me to read a bit to you. I’ll just run home and get my tea, and be back directly.” And off Tom ran.