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Chapter One

The London season was at its height. The weather was warm and sultry, the days were at their longest. The shops were gay with beautiful dresses, richly trimmed bonnets, gloves, parasols, hats – the thousand and one pretty articles of usefulness and beauty which are considered indispensable by the people who drive about in carriages and live in the large houses in the West End of London.

The time was night, and the more important shops were shut, but the great houses in Grosvenor Square revealed at this moment their fullest and most brilliant life, for this was the time when the great receptions of the season were given.

Before one of the largest and most important of these mansions a small crowd had collected. It was the sort of crowd who are fond of getting peeps inside the lovely palaces which they must not enter. Rough-looking boys, eager, pinched women, a few men, and even some babies were present. They jostled one another, and each in turn tried to force his or her way to the front rank. They made remarks freely with regard to the people who were going inside the house. The beautiful girls and richly dressed matrons called for their outspoken admiration. The men of princely mien and irreproachable attire caused the ragged girls and thin women to think timidly that fairy tales were true, and that real princes did live on the earth. The guests went up the carpeted steps, and disappeared one by one into the mansion. The people in the crowd scarcely breathed as they watched them. How the ladies did trail their long and exquisite robes! How like angels the girls in white looked, how like queens and princesses the older women appeared, how kingly were the gentlemen who accompanied them! Yes, the spectacle was a fairy one; it was delightful to enjoy it all for nothing.

The crowd were in an excellent humour, and did not mind when the policeman somewhat roughly pushed them back. All things considered, they enjoyed themselves quite as well as the people who went into the house, they were not jealous or envious in the least. Standing in front of this motley crowd, so much in front that the brilliant gaslight fell full upon their eager upturned faces, might have been seen a tall girl of about sixteen, and two boys a little younger. The girl was very upright, quite clean in her person, and not only neat, but picturesque in her dress. A many-coloured cotton scarf was twisted in the form of a turban round her head; a large apron of the same material nearly covered her black dress. On her arm she carried a large flat basket filled with roses, narcissus, forget-me-nots, and other summer flowers. Her eyes were very dark and bright, her hair black, her complexion a pure olive. She was not only a handsome girl, but her whole effect was intensely foreign and picturesque. Her carriage was so upright, her simple pose so stately, that one or two ladies and some of the men who were going into the mansion were attracted by her appearance, and remarked her to one another.

The girl gazed after them, her black eyes wide-open, her lips slightly parted, an eager, hungry expression all over her face. The two boys who stood with her kept nudging each other, and whispering together, and making remarks, some under their breath, some out loud, with regard to the gay company who were going into the house.

The girl never spoke. Even when her brothers pushed her roughly, she only moved a little away from them in absolute silence.

“I say, Jill,” – the elder of the lads gave the young flower girl a more violent shove than usual – “be yer goin’ to stay here all night? Most of the folks have come by now, I reckon, and we’d best be moving on; there’s going to be no end of fun presently at that big house over there by the corner.”

Jill shook herself, stared eagerly at the speaker, and then said, in a quick, impassioned voice, “I never see’d nothing like this afore, Bob. Sech dresses, sech faces. Oh, the light and grandeur of it all! I’ve pictured it of course lots and lots o’ times, but I never see’d it afore.”

“I told yer it ’ud be fine,” replied Bob; “come on, you’ll see more of the same sort at the big house at the corner. You take my ’and, Jill, and let us run. We’ll get in front of the crowd ef we are quick.”

“No,” said Jill, “I don’t want to see no other crowd. There were angels and princes and princesses going into that ’ere house. I don’t want to see nothink more – my head’s full o’ the sight, and my eyes sort o’ dazzled. I’m goin’ ’ome now to mother; I ha’ a power o’ news to tell her.”

She turned away as she spoke, moving quickly through the crowd with her free, stately step.

Many people turned to look at her, but she did not appear to see them. Even when one or two called to her to stop and sell some of her flowers, she did not pay the least attention.

The gay streets where the grand folks lived were quickly passed, and Jill found herself in a poor and squalid neighbourhood. The hour was late, but these streets were all alive as if it were noon. Children quarrelled and played in them, women gossiped, men lounged out of the public-houses, stared at Jill and called after her as she walked quickly by.

A child tumbled down in front of her path and lay screaming and rubbing its dirty little face in a puddle. This sight caused her to stop; she stooped, picked up the little creature, gave it a fully blown rose from her basket and walked on again.

At last she reached a large corner building which was let out in flats to poor people. She turned in here, ran up the stairs lightly and quickly, until she reached the top landing, there she stopped before a rudely-painted door.

The door had a knocker, which Jill sounded loudly. There was no response whatever from within. She turned a little pale at this, put down her ear to the keyhole, and listened eagerly. Not a sound reached her from the other side of the closed door. She knocked once again, then putting her lips to the keyhole, she called through it in a high, sweet voice:

“It’s me, mother; it’s Jill! Open the door, please, mother, I ha’ lots of news.”

No response came to this petition. The same absolute, unbroken silence reigned inside the room. Jill paused to consider for a moment. The exalted dreamy look left her face; a certain sharpness, mingled with anxiety, filled her black eyes. After a very brief pause, during which she watched the closed door with a kind of sad patience, she picked up her basket and ran down to the next landing. The door here had a neat little knocker, which was polished and shining. Jill gave a single knock, and then waited for a reply. It came almost immediately. A woman with a night-cap on opened the door, uttered an exclamation at sight of the girl, put out her hand to draw her into the room, and spoke in a voice of agitation:

“You don’t mean to tell me, Jill Robinson, that yer mother ain’t ’ome yet? Why the – ”

“Don’t say any more!” exclaimed Jill, eagerly. “I’m goin’ out to look for mother. She’s maybe took faint, or something o’ that sort. Will you take care of my flowers till I come back, Mrs Stanley?”

“Need you ask, honey? You lay ’em in there in the cool. You ’asn’t sold too many to-day, Jill. What a full basket!”

“Yes, but they’re mostly buds. They’ll look lovely to-morrow when I freshens ’em up. Now I must go to look for mother.”

“This ain’t a fit hour for a girl like you to be out, Jill.”

“Any hour’s fit when a girl can take care on herself,” responded Jill, proudly.

She ran quickly down-stairs, leaving her flowers in the passage of Mrs Stanley’s little flat. Just outside the door of the big building she came upon a motley crowd of men and women. They were eagerly gazing at something which excited at once their amusement and derision.

The crowd was too thick for Jill to see what attracted them, but a sound, full, strong, and sweet, drew her attention. She was walking quickly past the people, but this sound arrested her steps. It caused the colour to flame into her cheeks, and an angry light to leap out of her eyes. With a rapid, deft movement she pushed her way through the people. She guessed, even before her eyes assured her of the fact, what was the matter.

“Go it again, Poll Robinson!” shouted the men. “Oh! you took that note prime. You never wor in better voice. Go it again, my beauty! Now then, let’s listen, all of us, to handsome Poll Robinson. You give us another song, Poll, now then.”

A tall, powerfully-built woman of about five-and-thirty was standing in the middle of the street; her bonnet was pushed on one side of her head, her dress was slovenly, her steps sadly unsteady. She was trying to dance for the benefit of the assembled company, and at the same time was sending up full rich notes, from a throat of vast compass, into the summer night.

The song she sang was “Cherry Ripe.” The crowd jostled one another, and applauded her loudly. When Jill burst like a young Fury into their midst, one or two of the men, and some of the women, were joining with hearty abandon in the chorus:

 
“Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,
        Ripe, I cry —
Full and fair ones,
        Come and buy!”
 

“Go it, Poll, go it!” they shouted again. “That’s better! that’s prime! Wish I could buy ’em, makes my mouth water to hear on ’em. Oh! you are in fine voice to-night, Poll Robinson.”

“You let her be,” said Jill. “Oh! for shame ain’t you cowards? Don’t you see as she don’t know rightly what she’s doing? Oh! I ’ate you – I ’ate you all. Don’t you see for yourselves she’s took mor’n she ought? Do you think she would sing to you like that ef she knew the reason why? No one ever tried harder to be good than poor mother. She never takes a drop except when the pain’s too bad to be borne. Oh! ain’t you cowards, every single one on yer? Here, mother, come home with me at once. You make way, you bad, cowardly men and women. Go home to your own beds, and let mother and me go to ours. Come along, mother, it’s Jill! Come home with me at once. No, you ain’t to sing any more. I’ll pay you all out for this, neighbours, see ef I don’t.”

She took the woman under her wing, and, going quickly through the astonished, half-cowed, half-amused people, entered the house.

Chapter Two

Jill pulled her mother’s hand fiercely inside her arm. The presence of the angry, upright girl had a sobering effect on the older women. A dim sense of shame and distress was stealing over her. She made violent efforts to keep from tottering, and, raising one powerful but shaking hand, tried to straighten her bonnet.

Jill walked past Mrs Stanley’s flat, without stopping to fetch her basket of flowers. When she reached the top landing of the house she slipped her hand into her mother’s pocket, took out the key which by then, and opened the door which led into the little flat. The flat consisted of two rooms and a narrow passage.

Still holding her mother by the arm, Jill went into the outer room. She found a box of matches, and, striking one, lit a candle which was placed on the round table.

“Now, mother, sit down,” she said, in a tender voice. “Here’s your own chair. Sit right down and rest a bit. I’ll be no time boiling the kettle, and then we’ll have a cup o’ tea both on us together; you’ll feel a sight better when you have had your tea, mother.”

The woman sat on the edge of the chair which Jill had pulled forward, she loosened her bonnet-strings, and let her untidy, disorderly bonnet fall off her head of thick black hair.

“I’ll never go and do it any more, Jill,” she said, after a pause. “The pain’s better now, and next time it comes I’ll bear it. I know I’m tipsy now, but, sure as my name’s Poll Robinson, you’ll see, Jill, as I’ll never go and do it again.”

“To be sure you won’t, mother. Don’t you fret. Forget all about it – forget as you were tipsy jest now in the street. You’ll soon be as right as ever you wor. I’ll fetch some cold water to bathe your face and hands, then you’ll feel prime. You cheer up, mother, darlin’, and forget what you ’as done.”

“But you won’t forget it, Jill. I’ve shamed you before the folk in the street, you can’t go and forget it, it’s contrary to nature.”

“Why I’se forgot it, mother, already; you sit quiet, and let me tend you.”

While Jill spoke she bustled about, placed the kettle of water on the little gas-stove to boil, and, going out into the passage, filled a basin fall of cold water from a tap. Bringing it back, she tenderly washed her mother’s hot face and hands, combed back her disordered hair, coiled it deftly round her comely head, and then, bending down, kissed the broad, low forehead.

“Now you’re like yourself, so sweet; why you look beautiful; you’re as handsome as a picter. We’ll forget all about that time in the street. See! the kettle’s boiling, we’ll both be real glad of our tea.” The woman began to cheer up under the girl’s bright influence; her head ceased to reel, her hand to shake; she felt instinctively, however, that she had better keep silence, for her brain was still too confused for her to talk sensibly.

The tea was made strong and fragrant. Jill stood by the little mantelpiece while she sipped hers. Her eager eyes watched her mother with an affectionate and sad solicitude.

“Now, mother, you must go to bed at once, and have a good sleep,” she said, when the meal was over.

“I didn’t mean to go and done it,” said the woman again.

“Course you didn’t, mother, and you’ll never do it no more. Go and lie down now.”

“Where are the lads, Jill?”

“They’ll be in presently. It’s all right. You lie down; you look awful spent and worn.”

“But the pain’s better, my gal.”

“That’s right. You sleep while you’re easy.”

“Jill, don’t you ’ate your poor wicked old mother?”

“No, mother. I love you better than all the rest of the world put together. Now lie down, and don’t fret yourself. I has a sight of fine things to tell you in the morning; but go to sleep now, do!”

The exhausted woman was only too glad to obey. The moment her head touched the pillow, her tired eyes closed and she went off into dreamless slumber.

Jill stole softly from the room, closing the door behind her.

She had scarcely done so before a shuffling, lumbering sound was heard on the landing; the outer door was banged vigorously from without, and rough boys’ voices called to Jill to open and let them in.

She flung the door open without a minute’s delay.

“Come in,” she said, “and take off your boots, and be quiet ef you can, for mother’s not well, and I won’t have her woke to please anybody. You’re both shameful late, and I’ve half a mind to let you sleep in the passage all night. There’s your supper; and now do try to be quiet.”

The elder boy, called Bob, pulled off his heavy boots and stole across the room. The younger followed his example.

“There’s your supper,” said Jill. She pointed to two plates, on which some lumps of cold suet pudding were placed. “Do be quick,” she said, speaking petulantly for the first time, “for I’m so tired myself I’m fit to drop.”

“Is it true that mother’s bad, Jill?” asked the youngest boy, peering up at his sister half anxiously, half wickedly.

“Yes, of course it’s true. Mother’s often bad. Why do you ask?”

“But old Hastie down in the street, he said that she had gone and – why, what’s the matter, Jill? You look so fierce that you quite take the heart out of a fellow.”

“You shut up,” said Jill. “You whisper in this room one word of what Hastie said, and you’ll feel my fist, I can tell you.”

“Only it’s true, Jill, and you know it,” said Bob, putting down his plate, and coming up and standing by his younger brother’s side. “You needn’t beat the life out of poor Tom for telling the truth. You know that Hastie only spoke the solemn truth, Jill, and you has no call to round on Tom.”

“Hastie told a lie,” said Jill; “and when Tom quotes his words to me, he tells lies.”

“Then mother hasn’t been out this evening.”

“No; she’s been in her bed since two o’clock, orful bad with pain. You’re dreadful cruel boys even to doubt her. She’s the best mother on this earth. Oh, let me see Hastie, and I’ll give him a spice of my mind. Now go and lie down, the pair on yer. I’m shamed of yer bringing up them lies.”

The boys slouched off, frightened at their sister’s blazing cheeks and fiery words. They lay down side by side in an old press bed at one end of the kitchen, and Jill, opening the door, slipped softly down to fetch her flowers from Mrs Stanley. The old woman was still up. She looked at the girl anxiously.

“You found her then, honey?”

“Oh, yes; quite easy. She was out for a little bit of exercise. She’s in bed and asleep a long time back.”

“Where you ought to be, Jill. You look fit to drop.”

“I ain’t then; I’m quite fresh. Where are my flowers?”

“There, dearie. Good-night to you, Jill Robinson.”

“Good-night, Mrs Stanley. Thank yer for keeping the flowers.”

Jill took up her basket and departed. In the passage which belonged to her mother’s flat she spent some little time watering her flowers, removing the withered ones, and making her basket look trim and fresh for the morrow.

The clock which belonged to a neighbouring church had struck one long before she laid her head on her pillow.

Chapter Three

About four o’clock on the following morning Mrs Robinson stirred, opened her eyes and looked around her.

The light was streaming full into the little bedroom. It was clean and fresh, for Jill would permit nothing else. There were no cobwebs to be seen on the walls, and the floor was white with constant scrubbing. The glass in the one small window was washed until it shone, and the little blind, which was neatly pinned across was fresh, and in perfect order.

Poll Robinson lay in bed and gazed around her. The scene of the night before bed passed completely from her memory and her mind now was altogether absorbed in wondering how she could outstrip Jill and smuggle some stale flowers, which she had hidden the night before under her bed, into her basket Jill never held with these doings, but Poll thought them perfectly justifiable. The way to do a thriving business was to mix the stale goods discriminately with the fresh, and to sell one with the other. Jill would not hear of it, and Poll had to own that Jill by her honesty and method, and by her own bright and spruce appearance, had gained a very tidy connection.

But though Poll liked the money which now flowed in regularly, she sighed more than once for the good old days when she need not scrub her sitting-room nor polish her windows, nor worry herself about her unsold flowers.

The flowers did very well thrust under the bed in the old times, and they sold very well, too, mixed up with fresh bunches the next day.

The neighbouring clock struck a quarter past four, and Mrs Robinson, with a profound sigh, raised herself on her elbow, and looked at her sleeping daughter.

There was a good deal of resemblance between the mother and child. Both were dark, and had big, brilliant eyes, and masses of raven hair.

The face of the older woman looked young enough this morning. The lines of care, pain, and dissipation had vanished with her last night’s sleep. A high colour, partly caused by an inward fever and ache, which scarcely ever left her, gave a false beauty to Poll Robinson’s face.

She stooped, kissed Jill on her forehead, and getting out of bed began to dress. She saw that the girl looked tired, and she determined to go to Covent Garden for the fresh flowers herself.

She hastily put on her clothes, and slipping her flowers from under the bed, went out into the kitchen. The boys were snoring loudly in their press bedstead. Poll went across the room, and shook Tom vigorously.

“Look yere,” she said, “you tell Jill that I’m fetching the flowers this morning. Tell her to lie easy, and take her sleep out. Do you hear me, you good-for-naught? Do you hear what I’m saying? or are ye too sleepy to take it all in?”

“I hear right enough, mother,” replied Tom, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “Are you better this morning, mother?”

“Yes, to be sure; why shouldn’t I be?”

Tom looked down at Bob, who was asleep. Then he glanced towards the open door of the bedroom. He was not at all afraid of his mother; but he had a wholesome dread of Jill.

“Look yere,” he said: “is it true what Hastie says?”

“What did Hastie say?”

Mrs Robinson placed her arms akimbo.

“He said as you were real bad last night, – real bad – and out in the street, you mind.”

“Well, and what ef I wor?”

“Only, Jill says it’s a lie. She said she’ll smack Hastie for saying it.”

Mrs Robinson’s face underwent a quick, queer change.

“Bless Jill,” she said. “You lie down and go to sleep, Tom, and don’t bother me.”

The boy slipped at once under the bed-clothes. He pretended to sleep, but he watched his mother furtively. Seen now in her fresh trim morning dress she was a presentable, and even handsome woman. She put on a coloured apron of the same pattern and design as Jill’s, twisted a turban round her head, and taking up her basket prepared to go out.

First of all, however, she went to an old bureau, and pulled open one of the small top drawers. In this drawer she and Jill kept their loose pence and silver. She was looking now for the money to buy the flowers with which she must stock her basket.

She knew that this time yesterday there were three shillings in pence and silver in the drawer. Now when she opened it, nothing whatever in the shape of money was to be seen. A piece of gay print, with which she intended to make an apron for herself, had also vanished.

Poll stood before the empty drawer with astonishment and confusion. Where had the money gone?

She thrust her hand into her pocket. Had she by any chance put it there when she went out to buy drink? If so, it was gone. Her pocket was quite destitute of the smallest coin. Could she have left the door open when she went out? No, she was quite confident on that point. She had a vivid recollection of locking the door, and taking the key with her.

The money was gone, and she could in no way account for its disappearance. What was she to do? She had not a halfpenny in the world to buy flowers with. Should she wake Jill, and tell her of her loss? No, she did not want to do that. The girl was looking sadly tired, and Poll did not want to confess that through her weakness and want of self-control some of their valuable little earnings had vanished.

She stood for a moment considering. Then she determined to go to the market, and trust to one of the flower merchants giving her sufficient flowers to stock her basket and Jill’s on credit. She must start at once, for the morning was passing, and the best and cheapest flowers would be sold.

She opened the door, and closed it softly behind her. Then she ran with a quick, light step down-stairs. No one would have recognised this trim and active woman for the disreputable-looking creature whom Jill had rescued the night before.

She quickly passed the buildings where their little flat was, and entered the low neighbourhood of Drury Lane. Drury Lane was a great haunt for flower girls. Poll had lived there herself for years. A memory of the old free life came back to her as she walked, and she could not help breathing a hearty sigh. The old life seemed attractive to her this morning; she forgot the blows her cruel husband had given her; she forgot the dirt, and the sickness, and the misery. She only remembered the absolute freedom from restraint, the jolly, never-may-care sort of existence. Everything was altered now; for Jill had taken the reins into her own hands. She and her mother belonged to the respectable class of flower girls. They bought good flowers straight from the market, and sold them to regular customers, and had their own acknowledged corner where they could show their wares in tempting and picturesque array. They were clean, decent sort of people now. Poll knew this, but she could not take pride in the fact this morning.

She walked quickly along, with her usual swinging, free sort of motion. Some of her old cronies nodded and smiled to her. Poll was so good-tempered and good-natured that the flower girls who were still low down, very low down in the world, could not look on her with envy. She would have shared her last crust with the worst of them.

Jill was not nearly so popular as her mother, far Jill was proud, and did not want to know the girls who had been the friends of Mrs Robinson’s youth.

A red-eyed woman, with a bent figure, a white face, and a constant cough, came up and joined Poll as she approached the neighbourhood of the great market.

“And how are you, Betsy?” asked Poll. “Does your cough hack you as bad as ever?”

“No, it’s better,” replied the poor creature. “I bought some of them cough-no-mores, and they seem to still it wonderful. I’m glad I met you, Poll; I think it wor the good Lord sent you in my way this morning.” The woman gasped painfully as she spoke.

“Here, lean on me, Betsy Peters,” said Poll, stopping, and offering her strong arm. “Don’t press me, like a good soul, for my side aches orful. Now then, wot is it, Betsy?”

“It certain sure wor the good Lord let me meet yer,” repeated Mrs Peters. “I cried to Him for near an hour last night, and yere’s the answer. It’s wonderful, that it is.”

“Only me and Jill we don’t believe in the pious sort,” answered Poll. “Not that it matters, ef I can help you, Betsy.”

“Yes, but it do matter,” replied Mrs Peters. “It seems a pity, for that sort of belief is a real comfort to poor folk. My word, ain’t I held on to it many and many a time? It wor only last night, and I were praying fit to burst my heart, and at larst it seemed to me as ef I see’d Him, His face wondrous pitiful-like, and his smile that encouraging. And I seemed to hear Him a-saying, ‘You hold on, Betsy Peters, for you’re a’most in Paradise now. You give a good grip o’ Me, and I’ll land you safe.’ My word! it did comfort me. It seemed to lift me out o’ myself. It’s a pity as you don’t hold on to that sort of thing, neighbour.”

Poll gave a quick, impulsive sort of sigh.

“Well, I’m glad as you finds the comfort o’ it, Betsy,” she said. “But what can I do for you? We’re most at the market now.”

“Ef you could lend me a shilling to buy flowers, neighbour? My man came in drunk last night, and he carried away every penny as I put by in the tin box. There’s little Jeanie, she is low and wake, and I’ve nothing for her breakfast but some tea-leaves that I’ve watered twice afore. Ef you lend me a shilling, Poll, jest to see me over to-day, I’ll pay you back sure and faithful to-morrow morning, so I will.”

Poll’s handsome face grew dark.

“In course I’d lend it to you, you poor critter,” she said, “but I han’t got it. You’ll scarce believe me when I say that I come out without a penny piece in my pocket. Jill and me, we are well-to-do, as flower girls go, but yesterday some villain of a thief came in and stole our bits of savings. I ha’ come out now to ask Dan Murphy to give me flowers on tick. I can’t help you, neighbour, however willin’ I am.”

Mrs Peters’s face turned deadly pale. She pulled her feeble arm away from Poll’s and looked at her with trembling lips and eyes that shone through a dim veil of tears.

“Oh, it seems orful,” she gasped. “And I made so positive as the Lord wor there, and that He heard me, and sent you as a hanswer. It seems – it seems as ef – ”

“As ef there weren’t no Lord,” repeated Poll.

“No, no; ef I thought that – ” Mrs Peters turned ghastly, and pressed her hand to her heaving heart.

“And you shan’t, neighbour,” exclaimed Poll, a great wave of crimson spreading over her face. “You shan’t lose your last drop of comfort, not ef I know why. You go and stand round there, neighbour, and I’ll come and share my flowers with you, see ef I don’t. I’ll go on tick for enough for us both. You stand there, Betsy, and wait, I’ll be safe to come back to you.”

Poll vanished almost as she spoke into the crowd of people who were already pressing towards the flower merchants and vendors of vegetables, roots, seeds, fruit, and the other articles sold in the market.

The scene was an intensely busy and lively one. The farmers, who had come up from the country in the quiet hours of the night, had unpacked their wares, and spread them out to the best advantage.

The costermongers and flower girls were eagerly buying, wrangling, chaffering, nudging, and jostling one another. Now and then a high coarse laugh rose on the air, now and then an oath; sometimes a cry of anger or disappointment.

Poll, threading her way through the thickest of the crowd, approached a stall which belonged to a flower merchant from whom she and Jill constantly bought their goods. She had little doubt that he would allow her to replenish her own basket and Jill’s, and to get a bunch of flowers over and above the quantity she required, for poor Mrs Peters.

Poll came up confidently.

“Is Dan Murphy here?” she asked of a small boy who stood by the stall, and who looked around him.

“Dan Murphy? Don’t yer know?” he exclaimed.

“Don’t I know what, you little beggar? Get out of my way, and I’ll speak to him myself.”

The boy responded to this sally by standing on his head. Then resuming his former upright position, he stuck his tongue in his cheek and winked at Poll.

She raised one vigorous arm to give him a blow across his face, but he dodged her, and vanished.

Her coast was now clear, however. She went up to the stall, which was well stocked with both fruit and flowers, and repeated her question.

“Is Dan Murphy here? I wish to speak to him.” When she asked her question a man with a Jewish type of face stepped forward and replied civilly:

“Can I serve you, ma’am?”

Poll bestowed a withering glance upon this individual.

“No, lad, you can’t serve me,” she replied. “I want the owner of this stall, Dan Murphy. He’s an old crony o’ mine.”

“You haven’t heard then, ma’am, that Murphy has sold his business to me. This stall is mine now.”

“My word, but that’s a blow.” Poll was turning away.

“Can’t I serve you, ma’am?” called the new owner of the stall after her.