Pollie tied up the money securely in the corner of her clean pocket-handkerchief, and with a light heart proceeded towards “home,” which was situated in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane.

It was a long way for so young a child to traverse alone; but the children of the poor early learn to be self-reliant. Therefore she heeded not the dangers of the London streets, but threaded her way along; and if at times she felt afraid of a crossing, or some hurried foot-passenger hustled her roughly, a sweet text, taught by her dearly-loved mother, came to her mind, bringing a feeling of safety along with it.

This was little Pollie’s comfort-“Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of My righteousness.” And so she pursued her onward way, in her child’s faith, trusting in Him to safely guide.

As she was turning up Drury Court she met Lizzie Stevens, a young woman who lived opposite to them, and who earned a scanty living by working for cheap tailors. Often had the child looked from the window, and across the Court watched the poor girl bending her pale face over her work, never pausing to rest, but for ever stitch, stitch. However, the young seamstress had seen her little neighbour watching her, and once or twice had nodded to her, and so a sort of acquaintance had sprung up between them; indeed, on several occasions they had met, and the child’s prattle had cheered the lonely work-girl.

“Where have you been, Pollie?” she asked as they went up Drury Court together, the poor girl staggering under the weight of a huge bundle-the child kindly keeping pace with her, though longing to run home with her budget of good news to mother.

“I’ve been selling violets. Mrs. Flanagan got them for me, and I’ve sold them all but two bunches-see!”

And she lifted up a cloth which she had placed over the sweet flowers to prevent them fading too quickly.

“Oh, how sweet they are!” exclaimed Lizzie Stevens, and she stopped, and putting her heavy bundle down on a door-step, bent her pale face over the flowers to inhale their perfume.

When she raised her face it was whiter than before, and on the violets something was glistening. Pollie at first thought it was a dew-drop, but when she looked up into her neighbour’s eyes she saw they were full of tears-one was resting on the flowers!

“Why are you crying?” asked the child softly; “are you ill?”

“Oh no, Pollie,” she sobbed forth; “but those sweet flowers recall the time when I was a little girl like you, and gathered them in the lanes near my happy home-before mother died.”

“Is your mother dead, then? Oh dear, I am so sorry,” said the child with earnest pity.

“Yes, I am all alone in the world; no one to love or care for me,” she exclaimed passionately. “Ah, I wish I was dead too.”

“Don’t say so,” said Pollie soothingly; “God cares for you, and loves you dearly.”

“I sometimes think even He forgets me,” moaned the poor girl, “when I see rich folks having all things they desire, and such as me almost starving, working night and day for a mere crust.”

“I once said so to mother,” remarked the child, “but she opened our Bible, and bade me read a verse she pointed out. Shall I tell you what it was?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

Pollie folded her hands, and repeated-

“Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me, lest I be full and deny Thee, and say, Who is the Lord? or lest I be poor and steal, and take the name of my God in vain.”

And then she turned to another to comfort me, and this is it-

“Be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”

When the child ceased speaking, she looked up into the face of her listener, whose head was bent in reverence to God.

“O Pollie!” she said at last, as again taking up her heavy load she proceeded slowly onwards, “I wish I had a good mother.”

“Come over to us sometimes,” said the child, eagerly.

“Will your mother let me?” was the question.

“Yes, I am sure she will; she is so good,” was the reply.

And then the two friends went on up Drury Lane, not speaking much; but as they were parting Lizzie stooped down, and kissing the child lovingly, said softly-

“Good-bye, and thank you, little Pollie.”

“Would you like a bunch of violets?” she asked. “I can divide the other between mother and Mrs Flanagan.”

The poor seamstress was unable to speak from emotion, but held out her hand with trembling eagerness for the flowers.

How glad was the child in being able to give a pleasure to her lonely neighbour. She felt more joy in seeing Lizzie Stevens’ glad smile than even in the magnificent sum of money wrapped in her handkerchief; for she experienced “it is more blessed to give than to receive;” and after seeing her friend disappear through the dingy doorway which led to the garret called her “home,” she turned with a light heart into the entry which led to her own place, eager to see mother and tell her all; but in doing so almost fell over a little cripple boy who sat crouched on the door-steps.

“O Jimmy! did I hurt you?” she asked in alarm.

“No. Everybody knocks me about; I’se used to it,” was his answer.

“Poor Jimmy!” said the little girl. “Where’s your mother?”

“Down there, drunk again,” he replied, pointing his thin finger in the direction of what in other houses would be the kitchen, but which was his “home,” if it could be dignified by so sacred a name.

Pollie looked sorrowfully on the poor boy, whose thin, wizened face, with large, hungry eyes, was placed on a shrunk and distorted body. His mother was the pest of the court, always drunk, and in her drunken fury beating her wretched offspring. Half-starved and half-clothed, he passed his time on the door-step, gazing vacantly at the passers-by, uncared for, unloved amidst the many.

“Poor Jimmy!” repeated the little girl. “Would you like some of my sweet violets?”

The boy, unused to even a breath of kindness, gazed some few seconds at her with his eager eyes.

“You be Pollie Turner, bain’t yer, what lives upstairs with yer mother?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” she replied, and repeated her question, as she took some of the flowers from her last bunch. “Would you like these?”

He held out his claw-like hand-so dirty that Pollie almost shrank from touching it as she gave him the violets. He took them without a word of thanks, but as she was moving away he called out-

“I say, did yer make these?”

“No, Jimmy,” she replied, as she came back to him; “God made them.”

“God!” he repeated, “Who’s He; Him’s mighty clever to fix up these little bits of things, bain’t He?”

The little girl was for a moment shocked, then she felt a tender pity for the poor boy.

“O Jimmy, don’t you know who God is?” she gently asked.

He shook his head; so she went on-

“God is our Father in heaven,” and she pointed upwards. “He made these sweet flowers, and us also, and He sent His dear Son to die for us, so that all our sins should be taken away. And when Jesus (that is the name of God’s dear Son) was here on earth, He gave sight to the blind, healed the sick, and was for ever doing good; but now He is in heaven, and still He loves us, oh, so dearly, and wishes us all to come to Him.”

“Does He want me?” asked the outcast doubtfully; “He don’t know me.”

“Oh yes, He knows you, Jimmy, and loves you too; once Jesus blessed little children like you and me, and said, ’Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’”

“The kingdom of heaven!” repeated poor benighted Jimmy musingly-it was the first time he had ever heard those blessed words-“where be that, Polly?”

“It is where God lives, and where we shall go when we die if we believe in the Saviour and love and pray to God.”

“How do you pray?” he asked, fixing his keen eyes upon her, as though hungering for the bread of life.

But before she could reply, a loud, harsh voice was heard uttering frightful oaths, and a lumbering tread came stumbling up the cellar stairs. The poor boy knew full well who was coming, and with a terrified look started up and hobbled off, supported by his clumsy crutches, round the corner of the house, whilst Pollie, who went in terror of the drunken woman, ran hastily up the dirty staircase, which served for all the inmates of the crowded house.