Little Pollie | Page 8

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 with her."
"Oh then!" exclaimed Pollie, laughing, "I must just let myself in, and wait for mother; I know where she puts our key. Good-night, Jimmy dear."
And she was going up the stairs when she felt the little cripple boy gently pull her frock to detain her.
"I say, Pollie," he said hesitatingly, "I be so lonesome here, will yer mind biding with me and telling me about the kingdom of heaven, and that good man what took such as you and me in his arms--like you told me t'other day?"
"Oh yes, Jimmy, that I will," cried the little girl; "here, let us sit on this lowest stair; I don't think many people will be passing up now, and then I shall see mother when she comes in."
The poor ragged outcast crept near to his tiny friend as she requested, and then sat looking up into her bright face, whilst in simple words such as a child would use she told him that sweet story of old--of our Saviour, a babe in the manger of Bethlehem--His loving tenderness to