It was a little, rather stout-looking woman, who seemed to be between seventy and eighty years of age; she was almost covered with a tartan plaid, and her cap had over it a black silk hood, tied under the chin, a piece of dress still much in use among elderly women of that rank of life in Scotland; her eyes were dark, and remarkably lively and intelligent; I entered into conversation with her, and began by asking how she maintained herself, etc.
"She said that in winter she footed stockings, that is, knit feet to country-people's stockings, which bears about the same relation to stocking-knitting that cobbling does to shoe-making, and is of course both less profitable and less dignified; she likewise taught a few children to read, and in summer she whiles reared a few chickens.
"I said I could venture to guess from her face she had never been married.

She laughed heartily at this, and said, 'I maun hae the queerest face that ever was seen, that ye could guess that.

Now, do tell me, madam, how ye cam to think sae ?' I told her it was from her cheerful disengaged countenance.

She said, 'Mem, have ye na far mair reason to be happy than me, wi' a gude husband and a fine family o' bairns, and plenty o' everything?
for me, I'm the puirest o' a' puir bodies, and can hardly contrive to keep mysell alive in a' the wee bits o' ways I hae tell't ye.' After some more conversation, during which I was more and more pleased with the old womans sensible conversation, and the _naivete_ of her remarks, she rose to go away, when I asked her name.

Her countenance suddenly clouded, and she said gravely, rather colouring, 'My name is Helen Walker; but your husband kens weel about me.' "In the evening I related how much I had been pleased, and inquired what was extraordinary in the history of the poor woman.