found the door open, and
we went in.'

'Well, I never heard the like,' said Rose Ann. 'I declare they're
shaking from head to foot. Such a night as it has been, too; it'll be a
wonder if it isn't the death of them.'

'Come along, my poor bairns,' said the old woman. 'I've got some hot
coffee on the hob at home; you shall have a drink at once.'

'Oh no, thank you,' said Poppy; 'I must go home to mother.'

'So you shall, my dear; so you shall,' said old Betty; 'but you'll go
all the quicker for getting a bit of warmth into you; why, you're stiff
with cold, I declare. Poor lambs, you _must_ have had a night of it!
Bring them across, Rose Ann.' And the kind old woman trotted on in front
to stir her fire into a blaze, and to pour out the hot coffee for the
poor children.

She made them sit with their feet on the fender whilst they were
drinking it, and she gave them each a piece of a hot cake, which she
brought out of the oven. And all the time they were eating it she and
Rose Ann were crying over them by turns, and the old verger was shaking
his head and saying: 'I never heard the like; it's a strange business
altogether, it is.'

As soon as they were warmed and fed, the verger, and his wife, and Rose
Ann took the children home; and I wish you could have seen their arrival
in Grey Friars Court. There was such a kissing, and hugging, and crying;
such an excitement and stir; such a rejoicing over the children, who had
been lost but were found again, and such a thanksgiving in the heart of
Poppy's mother, as she saw the answer to her prayer.

No one could make too much of the three children that day. They were
invited out to tea to every house in the court, and sweets, and cakes,
and pennies were showered upon them, till the two mothers declared they
would be quite spoilt, and till Jack announced he would not much mind
spending another night in the tower, if they got all these good things
when they came home. But Poppy and Sally shook their heads at this, and
would not agree with him.

CHAPTER VI.

POPPY WRITES A LETTER.

'Poppy, I want you to write a letter for me, darling,' said her mother
one day.

'Is it to my father?' asked the child.

'No, Poppy; it isn't to your father.'

'Why do you never write to my father, mother?' asked Poppy.

Her mother did not answer her at once, and Poppy did not like to ask her
again. But after a few minutes her mother got up suddenly and shut the
door.

'Poppy, I'l