"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."