"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."