the house,' said Mrs Blossom.

'Oh, no, no, no!' cried little Meg, drawing Robin to her, and with a
great effort lifting him on to her lap, where he almost eclipsed her.
'I couldn't ever do that. We'll get along somehow till father comes
home.'

'Where is it you live?' inquired Mrs Blossom.

'Oh, it's not a nice place at all,' said Meg, who dreaded having any
visitor. 'It's along Rosemary Lane, and down a street, and then down
another smaller street, and up a court. That's where it is.'

Mrs Blossom sat meditating a few minutes, with the baby on her lap,
stretching itself lazily and contentedly before the fire; while Meg,
from behind Robin, watched her new friend's face anxiously.

'Well,' she said, 'you come here again to-morrow, and I'll ask Mr
George what's to be done. That was Mr George as was here, and he's my
lodger. He took you in, and maybe he'll agree to do something.'

'Thank you, ma'am,' said Meg gratefully. 'Please, have you any little
children of your own?'

The tears ran faster now down Mrs Blossom's cheeks, and she was obliged
to wipe them away before she could answer.

'I'd a little girl like you,' she said, 'ten years ago. Such a pretty
little girl, so rosy, and bright, and merry, as all the folks round
took notice of. She was like the apple of my eye, she was.'

'What was she called?' asked Meg, with an eager interest.

'Why, the neighbours called her Posy because her name was Blossom,'
said Mrs Blossom, smiling amidst her tears. 'We lived out in the
country, and I'd a little shop, and a garden, and kept fowls, and pigs,
and eggs; fresh eggs, such as the like are never seen in this part o'
London. Posy they called her, and a real posy she was.'

Mrs Blossom paused, and looked sadly down upon the happy baby, shaking
her head as if she was sorely grieved at heart.

'And Posy died?' said Meg softly.

'No, no!' cried Mrs Blossom. 'It 'ud been a hundred times better if
she'd died. She grew up bad. I hope you'll never live to grow up bad,
little girl. And she ran away from home; and I lost her, her own
mother that had nursed her when she was a little baby like this. I'd
ha' been thankful to ha' seen her lying dead afore my eyes in her
coffin.'

'That's bad,' said little Meg, in a tone of trouble and tender pity.

'It's nigh upon three years ago,' continued Mrs Blossom, looking down
still upon the baby, as if she were telling her; 'and I gave up my shop
to my son's wife, and