“A penny a bunch; only a penny, sweet violets,” cried a soft little voice, just outside the Bank of England, one morning in early spring; “only a penny a bunch!”

But the throng of busy clerks hurrying on to their various places of business heard not that childish voice amidst the confused din of omnibus and cabs, and so she stood, timidly uttering her cry-“Sweet violets!”-unheeded by the passers-by.

She was a fragile little creature of about ten years old, small for her age, with shy yet trustful eyes, and soft, brown, curly hair; and as she stood there, clad in a black frock and a straw hat, well worn, it is true, but free from tatters, with a piece of crape neatly fastened around it, had any one amidst that busy multitude paused to look at the little flower-seller, they would have wondered why so young a child was trusted alone in that noisy, bustling place.

“I say, Pollie, how many have yer sold, eh?” exclaimed another girl, coming up to her-quite a different type of girlhood, a regular London arab, one who from her very cradle (if ever she possessed such a luxury) had battled through life heedless of all rubs and bruises, ready to hold her own against the entire world, and yet with much of hidden goodness beneath the rugged surface.

“Only two bunches,” replied little Pollie, somewhat sadly.

“Only two!” repeated the other. “My eye! yer won’t make a fortin, that’s sartin!”

“The people don’t seem to see me, not even hear me,” said the child.

“’Cos why, you don’t shout loud enuff,” explained the bigger girl. “If yer wants to get on in the world, yer must make a noise somehow. Make the folks hear; never minds if yer deafens ’em, they’ll pay ’tention to yer then. See how I does it.”

At that moment four smart youths came strolling leisurely along arm-in-arm, trying to appear as though merely out on pleasure, though they knew full well they must be in their office and at their desks before the clock struck ten.

These were just the customers for Sally Grimes, and away she rushed full upon them, her thin ragged shawl flying in the wind, and her rough hair, from which the net had fallen, following the example of the shawl; and as she reached the somewhat startled youths, who almost stumbled over her, she held her only remaining posy right in their faces, screaming out in a harsh grating voice, rendered harsh by her street training-

“Now, then, gents, this last bunch-only a penny!”

Polly looked on in utter amazement. It is true she did not understand Sally’s logic, but she saw plainly that the sweet violets were sold, for presently back came the girl, crying out-

“That’s the way to do it. I’ve sold all mine; now let’s see what you’ve got left. Why, ten more bunches! Come, give us two or three, I’ll get rid of ’em for yer; I’ll bring yer back the money. Look sharp, I see some folks a-comin’.”

And without further parley she snatched up several of the dainty little bunches tied up so neatly by Pollie’s mother, and rushed off in pursuit of purchasers.

She was certainly very fortunate, for in spite of a stern-looking policeman who was watching her movements, she sold them, speedily returning with the money to little Pollie, who by this time was getting almost bewildered with the noise around.

“There, my gal,” said the kind girl, “there’s the money for yer; look, six pennies. My! ain’t yer rich. Now I’m off to Covent Garding to the old ‘ooman-mother, I means, yer know. There St. Poll’s a-strikin’ ten; good-bye.”

So saying, the friendly Sally Grimes darted off amidst the crowd, leaving the child to manage for herself, and very lonely she felt after her good-natured ally was gone.

It was Pollie Turner’s first attempt at selling flowers, and this her first day.

No wonder the poor child felt shy and sad, for she could remember the time when “father” used to come home at eventide to the small but cosy cottage in that green lane, far, far away in the pleasant country; and she used to stand at the gate to watch for his coming, sometimes running half-way up the lane to meet him, and he would perch her on his shoulder, where she felt, oh! so safe, and bring her home to mother. Or she would climb his knee as he sat by the fire, and watch dear mother get the nice supper; but father was dead now. She had seen the pretty daisies growing above his grassy grave in that distant churchyard; and the mother, who had come up to London hoping to do better, was so ill and weak, scarcely able to do the needlework with which to gain food for them both.

And Mrs. Flanagan had proposed the plan of Pollie starting in business. So this is how it had all come about.

Pollie stood silently thinking over these events of the happy times gone by, when some one touched her arm softly, and then she looked up into the sweet face of a lady, whose kind eyes were bent half-sadly, half-pityingly upon her.

“Are you selling these violets, my child?” she asked; and her voice was so sweet.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then will you let me have three bunches?”

Pollie with a smile put them into her hand, and the lady, after thanking her, placed the money for them in the child’s basket, and went towards a carriage that was drawn up near the Royal Exchange.

The child, lost in admiration at such a nice lady, followed her with her eyes, never thinking to look at the money she had given for the flowers, until glancing into the basket to see how many bunches were still left, she beheld a shilling shining amidst the dingy coppers. Eager to return the money to its rightful owner, little Pollie darted amongst the people who thronged the pavement, ran across the road at the risk of being run over, and reached the lady just as she was stepping into her carriage.

“Please, ma’am, please,” she faltered quite out of breath, and at the same time pulling her violently by the dress.

“Let go, you little vagabond!” exclaimed the indignant footman, taking Pollie by the arm to pull her away.

Fortunately the lady turned on hearing her servant speak thus, and saw the child struggling in his grip.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Please, ma’am, this,” cried Pollie, holding up the shilling.

“That is for the violets you sold to me.”

“Oh no, ma’am, it is all wrong,” exclaimed the child excitedly; “those flowers are but three-pence-a penny a bunch; that’s all. Here is your money, ma’am!”

The lady gazed earnestly into the little girl’s flushed face, as she asked-

“Why did you not keep that shilling?”

“Because it was not mine,” was the answer.

“I should not have known but that the money was correct. You did not say the price of your flowers, my child.”

“God knew the price,” said Pollie reverentially, “and He would have been angry with me for cheating you, ma’am.”

“Who taught you of God?” asked the lady softly, as she bent down to the little one.

“Mother!” was the reply.

“And is your mother dead?” she questioned, perceiving for the first time the child’s poor mourning.

“No, ma’am, but father is, and mother is so ill and weak,” and the shy brown eyes filled with tears.

“Poor child, poor little child,” murmured the lady compassionately. “What is your name?” she asked after a pause, “and where do you live?”

Pollie gave the desired information.

“Well then, Pollie,” said her new friend kindly, “here is the money for the violets; and take this shilling: it will buy something for your mother, perhaps. I shall come and see you one day.”

So saying she patted Pollie’s thin cheeks with a soft loving touch; then stepping into the carriage was driven away, leaving Pollie in a state of wonderful happiness at so much kindness from so nice a lady.

“Oh dear!” she thought, “I am rich now. I must make haste home to mother, and I’ve two bunches of violets still left. Mother shall have one and Mrs. Flanagan the other.”