Little Pollie | Page 8

so thinking, stopped and bought of the shy
little maiden, speaking kindly to her the while; girls on their way to the
city workrooms gladly spent a hard-earned penny for violets, and
worked more cheerfully afterwards, gladdened by the mere
remembrance of Pollie's grateful thanks. A sturdy policeman, too,
whose beat was at that place, and where he seemed to hold stern sway
over all the omnibus and cab drivers, took her, as it were, under his

lordly care (perhaps he had a little girl of his own), and would shield
her many times from the jostling crowd, or take her safely over the
crossings. Indeed, he was so kind, that one day, when she was going
home, she summoned up courage enough to overcome her shyness, and
offer him some of the violets she had not sold. To her great delight he
accepted them, saying kindly,--
"Thank you, my little woman."
And all through that day he kept them in his pocket, sometimes,
however, taking them out to smell their fragrance, and then, somehow,
the remembrance of Pollie's wee face as she looked when timidly
offering the flowers, carried him back to the days of "auld lang syne,"
those happy days when he and his little sister (long since dead) had
rambled through the green lanes of his native village, searching for
sweet violets, and this memory cheered the poor tired policeman, made
him forget the ceaseless din around and the never-ending wilderness of
bricks. Even the London sparrows looked less dingy, and the sunbeams
falling across the dusty pavement recalled to his mind how fresh the
green was where he used to play when a boy, and how the shadows
seemed to chase the sunshine over the uplands on such an April day as
this. Yes, Pollie's violets were not useless, they were speaking with
their mute voices----speaking of the past with its brightest memories to
this poor man.
Not that Sally Grimes had deserted her little friend, far from that, for
somehow she "took to her," as she herself expressed it, and was always
hovering about the child in case she needed protection. But Sally's
movements were inclined to be erratic; she dashed in and out among all
sorts of vehicles in search of customers so recklessly, any one less
experienced would have trembled for her safety; but she knew no fear,
and dared the dangers of the streets most bravely.
Sometimes Lizzie Stevens would walk with Pollie as far as the Bank,
then leaving the child to sell her flowers, would proceed to the East
End with her own work; but on her return, the little girl was always
ready to join her, and they would all three go home together. A great
friendship existed between the hitherto lonely seamstress and Pollie's

mother, whose kind heart was touched by the account the child gave of
their friendless young neighbour; so she sought her out, and finding
how good she was, and how bravely she struggled to earn her daily
bread honestjly, gradually won her confidence; so that now Lizzie felt
she was not quite alone in this wide wide world. There was a kind
motherly love in which she could rest, and life was made brighter for
her; even the days were less dreary than before, for as Mrs. Turner's
room was nicer than hers, she invited her to bring her work over, and
they stitched hour after hour at their ceaseless work, yet still they did
not feel their loneliness so much, and were a comfort and help to one
another.
All this was a happiness to Pollie, as she felt her mother would not be
sad during her absence (as she very often was), for the child's
"business" had become more extensive, her ally, Sally, having
persuaded her to sell flowers in the evening also; and as her mother and
Mrs. Flanagan had offered no objection to this plan, Pollie was only too
glad to earn more; indeed the little girl's gains, small though they were,
helped to get many simple comforts for the humble home.
One evening about six o'clock she came home, swinging her empty
basket in her hand and singing softly a merry song from sheer gladness
thinking also of the dear face upstairs that would brighten up to
welcome her, as it ever did, when, as she entered the doorway, she
stumbled over poor little Jimmy, crouching as usual just inside the
entrance.
"There ain't nobody at home, Pollie," he said; "yer mother has gone to
help Lizzie Stevens carry to the shop a real heap of work."
"I daresay Mrs. Flanagan is in her room," said the child.
"No, she ain't neither," replied Jimmy, "for I see'd her go out to the
market; I know, 'cos she took her great basket