Many days and weeks had passed away, much as life does with us all. We heed not its passing, and forget in the turmoil of worldly cares to scatter seed for the great Husbandman, to reap when He cometh.

And little Pollie?

She had been busy as usual selling her flowers, and as usual scattering, in her simple way, the golden grain. Gently had she led Sally Grimes to seek for higher things, and every Sabbath they were now to be seen sitting side by side, learning of the life that is to come.

And at home? Affairs there had become much brighter, for Mrs. Turner’s work had greatly increased, her quiet, unpretending manner having won for her many kind friends, who kept her fully employed-indeed so much that Lizzie Stevens had given up her hard labour of working for the slopshops, and now helped the widow in her lighter and more remunerative toil. It is true they had to work early and late to keep the house (such as it was) above them-the wolf from the door; but they were not so lonely as heretofore. The widow found comfort in the companionship of the hitherto friendless girl, and it was such a happiness for Lizzie to have one so motherly in whom to confide, and of whom she could ask counsel and advice.

Then when Pollie came in from her daily toil, cheering them both like a very sunbeam, how they would pause in their work to watch her as she merrily counted over her money, and brushed out her empty basket in readiness for the morrow, chatting gaily the while.

And then to see that active little figure so noiselessly busy getting the tea-dinner, which she always insisted on doing to save “mother” the trouble; indeed, I think the tea would have lost its flavour for that dear mother had Pollie’s hands not prepared it.

Sometimes, during the hot July days, the child would persuade them to take a rest; and when it became too dark to see their work without the help of a candle, they would walk out of Drury Lane for a while, and go down one of the streets leading to the Thames, where the air felt purer and fresher, and sitting down would watch the boats on the river. Sally usually joined them, and these little rests from toil constituted their simple pleasures. How deliciously cool the breezes felt, so different to the heated atmosphere of their own neighbourhood! Both Mrs. Turner and Lizzie used to feel revived by the change. No wonder then that the two children should decide on living near the river when they grew rich, for with the hopefulness of youth they planned great things for the future.

So the summer passed by, and autumn came, and now, instead of roses or pinks, Pollie’s basket was filled with chrysanthemums and dahlias. She often wondered what she should do when winter came and there were no sweet flowers to sell. It grieved her to think she should not then be able to help her dear mother, and as usual she opened her heart to that loving parent.

“Ah, my Pollie!” said the mother, as she smoothed back the curls from the anxious little face, “have you forgotten? ‘The Lord will provide.’”

Then the child was comforted, for she remembered that “There is no want to them that fear Him.”

One October evening she turned up Russell Court, tired and anxious to get home, for it had been a dull, dark day in the City, and she had not succeeded in disposing of her flowers there. The old bankers and merchants seemed not disposed for purchasing bouquets that day. Even Sally’s basket still remained filled, and she was always a more successful seller than timid little Pollie; so the elder girl had proposed trying westward for better luck. Better luck they certainly had, for their baskets became empty at last, but they walked many a mile during the day, and Pollie’s tiny feet were very, very weary, as bidding her friend a loving “good-night” she turned her steps towards home, eagerly longing for its rest and shelter.

The gas was flaring in Drury Lane, so that Russell Court looked dark by comparison; but as she approached the house in which they lived, she was surprised to see a dense crowd gathered around the door. Men were there speaking in hoarse whispers, women talking with bated breath as though afraid to speak aloud, and the bewildered child could hardly fancy it was the same place, there was such a hushed commotion as it were; the crowd swaying to and fro, to give place to others who came to swell the excited throng.

Little Pollie stood amidst the people who were hustling each other to get as near the door as possible. What was to be done? how was she to get into the house? and oh, how anxious her mother would be at her long absence! The poor child became frightened, almost to tears, totally unable to force her way through the mob, which was increasing every moment, when looking round for some friendly aid, she saw to her delight Mrs. Smith, the greengrocer’s wife, standing close by, with a shawl thrown over her head, talking to a policeman, and pointing excitedly towards the house.

Pollie went up to her and ventured timidly to touch her arm.

“Please, Mrs. Smith,” she began.

“Lor’ bless me, child, what are you doing out so late, and in this crowd too?” was her exclamation.

“I can’t get in,” Pollie sobbed; “oh, what is the matter?”

“What! don’t you know? Lor’, it’s awful,” she replied; “here, policeman, do get this poor child through that there mob; I guess her mother is in a way about her.”

“All right, Mrs. S -,” said the man, and to Pollie’s astonishment he took her up in his arms, to carry her through the crowd, who made way for him to pass with his light burden.

Tallow candles were flaring in the narrow passage, people with pallid, haggard faces looked out from open room doors; yet with all this unwonted stir, there seemed to be a strange hushed awe upon them, as though they were calmed by the mysterious presence of a great calamity.

When the man put Pollie down she glanced from one to another in trembling alarm, still clinging to her protector’s hand.

“Here she is at last,” cried a voice; and turning to the speaker she recognised a woman who lived in the house, and whom she had often met on the stairs.

“Is it my mother?” asked the child, with undefined dread at her poor little heart.

“No, no, come with me; he keeps calling for you.”

Then, still holding the policeman’s hand closely clasped in hers, she followed the woman down the dirty dark stairs which led to the cellar where Jimmy lived.

The door of the squalid room stood wide open; two tallow candles stuck in empty bottles flared on the broken mantel-shelf above the rusty fireless grate; a battered old chair and a rickety table constituted the entire furniture of the room (if such it could be called), for on a heap of dirty rags lay little Jimmy. By his side, holding him in her arms, knelt Mrs. Turner, whilst a gentleman, evidently the parish doctor, was bathing his head, from which the blood was flowing. Lizzie Stevens was there, steeping linen in a basin for the doctor, and another policeman, no one else. I forgot. Crouching in the farthest corner, and glaring in drunken stupor around her, was the poor dying child’s wretched mother. A broken bottle tightly grasped in her hands, fragments of which lay about the dirt-encrusted floor, told the tale, alas! too plainly. In her drunken fury she had slain her child!

Pollie felt safe directly she saw her own loved mother.

“O mother, what is it?” she whispered.

The dying boy heard her, softly as she had spoken.

“Little Pollie,” he feebly murmured, and turned his dim eyes up to her.

“Dear Jimmy,” she said, kneeling down beside him. He smiled as though at peace, and yet the life-blood was ebbing slowly away.

“Pollie,” he said, “shall I go to the kingdom of heaven? Will Jesus put His hands on me, and bless me also?”

The little girl could not speak for sobbing, but she laid her soft cheek upon his clay-cold hand.

“You’ve been very good to me,” he rambled on, “you told me of the Good Shepherd” - There was silence, broken only by the choking sobs of the listeners; even the policemen, used as they were to similar scenes, were deeply moved at the dying boy’s love for his little friend. His eyes were closed, but his disengaged hand wandered feebly over the horse-rug that covered him, until at last he laid it on Pollie’s bowed head. There it rested; his eyes unclosed, and he gazed wildly round, saying excitedly-

“Pollie, Pollie, it’s so dark. Is it night coming on? Don’t go, little Pollie. Let me say the prayer you taught me.” He tried to fold his hands as she had always done. In vain-they fell upon the coverlet, weak and nerveless.

“Lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death,” he murmured falteringly. The voice ceased!

Crippled Jimmy had passed away safely into the fold of the Good Shepherd!

Ah! who would wish him back again? Misery exchanged for perfect bliss-sorrow and sighing for eternal joy.

They all gazed upon the sharp pinched features, now gradually settling into the calm repose of death. What in life was almost painful to look upon, with the touch of immortality became lovely; for the dead child’s face bore the impress of an angel’s smile, as though he had caught a glimpse of heaven’s happiness whilst passing through the dark valley of the shadow of death.

Little Pollie clung to her mother, sobbing convulsively and hiding her face in her dress.

“Hush, my darling,” soothed the widow; “poor Jimmy is now with God, free from all sorrow or pain. Think what his joy must be!”

They were startled by a harsh voice screeching out-

“That ain’t my Jimmy! Let me get at him! I say, what be you folks doing here?”

It was the drunken creature, who, unnoticed by any of them, had approached the spot where the dead child lay. She darted forward, crying out, whilst she brandished the bottle-

“I’ll wake him, never fear; like I’ve done many a time before, I warrant ye!”

Fortunately the policeman saw her in time to prevent her doing further mischief, or even touching the boy, for, laying his firm grasp upon her arm, he exclaimed authoritatively-

“Come, none of this, my good woman. I must take you to Bow Street, to answer the charge of killing that poor little chap.”

Then ensued a scene too terrible to describe. The wretched woman was taken away from the place, shrieking and swearing, leaving her dead child to be tended by strangers, kinder far than she had ever been.