relieve me. This surpassingly beautiful child, then, had evidently
accepted me--lameness and all--crutches and all--as a subject of
peculiar interest.

How I loved her as I put my hand upon her firm little shoulders,
while I extricated first one crutch and then another, and at last got
upon the hard path again!

When she had landed me safely, she returned to the strawberry-bed,
and began busily gathering the fruit, which she brought to me in her
sunburnt hands, stained to a bright pink by the ripe fruit. Such a
charm did she throw over me, that at last I actually consented to her
putting the fruit into my mouth.

She then told me with much gravity that she knew how to 'cure
crutches.' There was, she said, a famous 'crutches-well' in Wales,
kept by St. Winifred (most likely an aunt of hers, being of the same
name), whose water could 'cure crutches.' When she came from Wales
again she would be sure to bring a bottle of 'crutches-water.' She
told me also much about Snowdon (near which she lived), and how, on
misty days, she used to 'make believe that she was the Lady of the
Mist, and that she was going to visit the Tywysog o'r Niwl, the
Prince of the Mist; it was _so_ nice!'

I do not know how long we kept at this, but the organist returned and
caught her in the very act of feeding me. To be caught in this
ridiculous position, even by a drunken man, was more than I could
bear, however, and I turned and left.

As I recall that walk home along Wilderness Road. I live it as