much less be touched by innocent hands like yours."

Pollie shrank back in terror at these words, and the tone in which they
were uttered, but Sally was equal to any emergency.

"Come, come," she exclaimed, "don't yer talk like that, frightening this
little gal in that way; you just quiet yourself, and then we'll see yer
safe home."

"Home!" was the response. "I have none, only the streets or the river."
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried practical Sally. "No home!" repeated little
Pollie; "how sad!"

"Now what's to be done?" debated the elder girl, somewhat puzzled as to
the course to be pursued; "here's night coming on, and we can't leave
you here, yer know."

"Let us take her home to my mother," exclaimed the child; "mother will
know what to do."

But Sally hesitated.

"Perhaps she might not like it," she observed.

"Oh, I am sure mother won't mind, she is so good and so kind."

All the time the children were discussing what was to be done, the
unhappy creature sat there, never heeding what was said, but still
sobbing and moaning, and apparently utterly exhausted.

"Well, then, there's nothing else to be done that I see, so come along,
young woman;" and so saying, Sally Grimes grasped her firmly by the arm,
thus forcing her to rise.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, gazing wildly around.

"To Pollie's mother," was the reply.

But the woman hung back and strove to free herself.

"I will not go!" she cried; "let me stay here, leave me to myself."

However, there is much to be said in favour of strength of will. Sally
Grimes, young as she was, possessed it in a wonderful degree;
therefore, without wasting another word, she compelled the forlorn
creature to go with her, little Pollie still keeping hold of the poor
thing's dress.

CHAPTER VII.

THE LOST ONE FOUND.

Mrs. Turner sat alone, busily sewing, but she heard her darling's
well-known step come pattering up the stairs; so she put on the
tea-kettle directly, for she knew the little one would be tired and
hungry; and forthwith it began to sing cheerily, filling the room with
its homely melody, as though it would say "Pollie is coming," "Pollie is
coming;" and somehow the mother felt cheered. It may be the kettle's
fancied greeting was but the echo of her own loving heart.

Time was too precious to be wasted, so the widow continued her work, and
the light from the one candle being centred to the spot where she sat,
the entry was consequen