Many stories are told, which show her kindness of heart.  The following is one of pathetic interest: 

In a humble room in one of the poorest streets of London, Pierre, a faithful French boy, sat humming by the bedside of his sick mother.  There was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day he had not tasted food.  Yet he sat humming to keep up his spirits.  Still at times he thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could scarcely keep the tears from his eyes; for he knew that nothing would be so grateful to his poor invalid mother as a good, sweet orange, and yet he had not a penny in the world.

The little song he was singing was his own—­one he had composed, both air and words—­for the child was a genius.

He went to the window, and, looking out, saw a man putting up a great bill with yellow letters, announcing that Madame Malibran would sing that night in public.

“O, if I could only go!” thought little Pierre; and then pausing a moment, he clasped his hands, his eyes lighted with a new hope.

Running to the little stand, he smoothed his yellow curls, and taking from a little box some old, stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house.

“Who did you say was waiting for me?” said the madame to her servant; “I am already worn out with company.”

“It’s only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who said if he can just see you he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep you a moment.”

“O, well, let him come in!” said the beautiful singer, with a smile; “I can never refuse children.”

Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm, and in his hand a little roll of paper.  With manliness unusual for a child, he walked straight to the lady, and, bowing, said: 

“I came to see you because my mother is very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine.  I thought, perhaps, that if you would sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, may be some publisher would buy it for a small sum, and so I could get food and medicine for my mother.”

The beautiful woman arose from her seat.  Very tall and stately she was.  She took the little roll from his hand and lightly hummed the air.

“Did you compose it?” she asked; “you, a child!  And the words?  Would you like to come to my concert?” she asked.

“O yes!” and the boy’s eyes grew bright with happiness; “but I couldn’t leave my mother.”

“I will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening, and here is a crown with which you may go and get food and medicine.  Here is also one of my tickets.  Come to-night; that will admit you to a seat near me.”

Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid, telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune.

When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert hall, he felt that never in his life had he been in so great a place.  The music, the myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silks bewildered his eyes and brain.