"It's rheumatis you've got, you poor thing," said one of the women who had addressed her.
"No, I don't think it's exactly that," was the reply; "but the doctor 'll tell. I can't hold my needle with the pain; it keeps me awake o' nights. Oh, we must all have our share," she added cheerfully; "but ef it were the will of the Almighty, I'd rayther not have my share o' pain in my right hand."
"You does needlework fer a living, I suppose?" said a man who stood near.
"Yes. I only 'opes to the Lord that my working hand isn't going to be taken from me—but there, I'll soon know."
She smiled brightly at these words, and addressed one of her neighbors with regard to the state of that neighbor's baby—the child was evidently suffering from ophthalmia, and could scarcely open its eyes.
It was cold in the out-patients' waiting-room, and the crowd became impatient and anxious, each for his or her turn to see the doctors who were in attendance. At last the little woman with the white hair was admitted to the consulting-room. She was shown in by a dresser, and found herself face to face with the doctor. He said a few words to her, asked her some questions with regard to her symptoms, looked at the hand, touched the thumb and forefinger, examined the palm of the hand very carefully, and then pronounced his brief verdict.
"You are suffering from what is equivalent to writers' cramp, my good woman," he said.
"Lor', sir," she interrupted, "I respec'fully think you must be mistook. I never take a pen in my 'and oftener nor twice a year. I aint a schollard, sir."
"That don't matter," was the reply; "you use your needle a good deal."
"Of course, and why shouldn't I?"