s, gladdened by the mere remembrance of Pollie's
grateful thanks. A sturdy policeman, too, whose beat was at that place,
and where he seemed to hold stern sway over all the omnibus and cab
drivers, took her, as it were, under his lordly care (perhaps he had a
little girl of his own), and would shield her many times from the
jostling crowd, or take her safely over the crossings. Indeed, he was so
kind, that one day, when she was going home, she summoned up courage
enough to overcome her shyness, and offer him some of the violets she
had not sold. To her great delight he accepted them, saying kindly,--

"Thank you, my little woman."

And all through that day he kept them in his pocket, sometimes, however,
taking them out to smell their fragrance, and then, somehow, the
remembrance of Pollie's wee face as she looked when timidly offering the
flowers, carried him back to the days of "auld lang syne," those happy
days when he and his little sister (long since dead) had rambled through
the green lanes of his native village, searching for sweet violets, and
this memory cheered the poor tired policeman, made him forget the
ceaseless din around and the never-ending wilderness of bricks. Even the
London sparrows looked less dingy, and the sunbeams falling across the
dusty pavement recalled to his mind how fresh the green was where he
used to play when a boy, and how the shadows seemed to chase the
sunshine over the uplands on such an April day as this. Yes, Pollie's
violets were not useless, they were speaking with their mute
voices----speaking of the past with its brightest memories to this poor
man.

Not that Sally Grimes had deserted her little friend, far from that, for
somehow she "took to her," as she herself expressed it, and was always
hovering about the child in case she needed protection. But Sally's
movements were inclined to be erratic; she dashed in and out among all
sorts of vehicles in search of customers so recklessly, any one less
experienced would have trembled for her safety; but she knew no fear,
and dared the dangers of the streets most bravely.

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. A great
friendship existed between the hitherto lonely seamstress and Pollie's
mother, whose kin