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Updated: June 13, 2025
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?"
Every morning before setting off for the City she comes, anxiously asking, "How's Pollie?" and on her return, her first care is to inquire for her little sick friend, bringing with her a few flowers, if she has any left in the basket, or some other trifle, precious, though, to the grateful recipient, whose white lips smile gratefully at the kind Sally for thus thinking of her.
Sometimes Lizzie Stevens would walk with Pollie as far as the Bank, then leaving the child to sell her flowers, would proceed to the East End with her own work; but on her return, the little girl was always ready to join her, and they would all three go home together.
Flanagan's employers had given her as a Christmas gift, and on which they were all to dine. Mrs. Smith had also contributed something to this festival in the shape of oranges and nuts, and had also given Pollie a few sprigs of holly with which to deck their room.
Many were the conjectures hazarded, till at last Pollie resolved to try no more, but wait until the entire word or phrase was finished, both children promising not to look until at a given signal from Nora they should know it was completed. Then they resumed their employment, waiting very patiently for the time. At last it came.
With the greatest care Pollie divided the flowers equally, and when putting theirs in the window, so that they might still see some of the blue sky, as she expressed it, she looked across the Court towards Lizzie Stevens' home. Pollie quite understood this little pantomime, and nodded her curly head a great many times to her opposite neighbour in proof of her so doing.
"Come, Uncle Tom, it is your turn!" cried Pollie, breaking in upon the reverie of their mother's brother, who, seated in the old red arm-chair, was gazing abstractedly at the cheery flames. "Yes, please let us have something about the war," put in Rob. "But everybody has been telling war stories for the last twenty-five years. Do you not think we have had enough of them?" said the gentleman.
"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.
Turner once said, "had it not been for our troubles we should never have known each other, for it was those very sorrows that knit us together." "Ay, ay," interrupted Mrs. Grimes, "for your Pollie somehow made my gal hate the streets, else she might a run there till now, and never a been the rale good scholar she be."
You may imagine with what delight and pride she introduced Sally to her kind teacher; what happiness it was to have her sitting by her side, to see her rapt attention as the text was explained in simple words suitable to the comprehension of the listening children; and when was read the parable of the Good Shepherd, which had been the lesson on that memorable evening when Sally first felt the eager longing to be gathered into the Saviour's fold, Pollie instinctively grasped her friend's hand, as once again the blessed message was repeated.
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