Jill: A Flower Girl. Meade L. T.

white, and a bunch of green. You bring me the money to-morrow, won’t you?”

      The young fellow picked up a great bunch of the flowers, thrust them into Poll’s hands, and turned to attend to another customer.

      She stood still for a moment too surprised to move. Then, with a fierce colour in her cheeks, strode across the market to the corner where she had asked Betsy Peters to wait for her.

      “Yere, Betsy,” she said, thrusting all the flowers into the woman’s basket, “ef there is a thing as sells, it’s a white or a pink poppy. Seems as if the very of the stingiest of the ladies couldn’t stan’ up agin’ a pink poppy. You’ll owe me a shilling for these, Betsy, and you’ll pay me when yer can. Good morning to yer; I’m off back to Jill.”

      Chapter Four

      When Poll returned home and showed her empty basket, Jill could not help uttering an exclamation of surprise.

      “Why, mother, you han’t brought in no flowers!” she said, “and I made sure you had gone to fetch ’em.”

      “Let me set down, Jill. That pain in my side, it do seem to bite orful hard this morning.”

      “Oh, poor mother! Set down and never mind the flowers. You shouldn’t have gone out so early, you know you shouldn’t. Here’s a cup of coffee. Drink it, do.”

      The little kitchen was a picture of brightness and neatness; the small stove was polished like a looking-glass. Jill placed a coarse white cloth on the table, drew it up to her mother’s side, placed the breakfast cups and saucers in order, laid bread and a piece of salt butter on the board, and, sitting down herself, filled two large breakfast cups with coffee, which was really good and fragrant.

      Mrs Robinson drank off a cupful thirstily. She laid it down with a sigh of relief.

      “You’re a real good gel, Jill,” she said. “And now I’ll tell you what happened to me.”

      “Never mind, mother. You take your breakfast, and set quiet; I’ll go and fetch some flowers myself, as soon as we ha’ done.”

      “You can’t, child; there ain’t no money.”

      “No money? But there was plenty in the drawer last night.”

      “Look for yourself, Jill.”

      Jill paused in her occupation of cutting thick bread and butter. The boys had already eaten their breakfasts, and gone away.

      She gave a quick glance round the cosy little room. The sun shone in at the window. The influence of the pleasant summer day was reflected all over Jill’s young face.

      “There’s time enough,” she said, with a slow, satisfied smile. “You eat your breakfast, mother, and I’ll fetch the flowers arter.”

      “But you can’t, when there ain’t no money. I tell yer somebody crep’ in yere yesterday, most like when I wor – when I wor – ”

      “Never mind about that, mother. You had the pain bad, and you were drowsy, and you left the door on the latch. That were how the thief got in, worn’t it, mother?”

      “Ef you like to have it so, child. Seems to me – ”

      “Yes, I like to have it that way,” repeated Jill. “You were drowsy, and some one come in and took the money out of the drawer. Give me yer cup, mother, and I’ll fill it again.”

      Mrs Robinson pushed her cup away from her, and stood up.

      “Do you know what it is?” she said. “That there are times over and over again when I’d a sight rayther you struck me than took things as you do.”

      “But I couldn’t take ’em any other way, mother, you know I couldn’t. I – I love you too much.” Jill’s lips trembled. There was a fierce passion in the way she said “I love you too much.”

      “And I put shame on you larst night, child. And now we are beggars. All our little savings is gone, and it’s owing to me.”

      “No, we ain’t beggars – I ha’ a stocking put away in another drawer. It’s for Nat and me ’gainst we set up housekeeping. I never spoke of it ’cause I ’arned every cent of it arter hours; but I’ll take some to-day to stock our baskets, and then we’ll be off to work.”

      Mrs Robinson strode noisily across the floor. She took Jill’s face between her two hands, and kissed her on each blooming cheek. Then she sat down with a profound sigh of relief.

      “Ain’t you a good ’un?” she said. “Any mother ’ud be proud of yer. You hurry and buy the flowers, dawtie dear, and then we’ll be off.”

      Breakfast was speedily finished, the breakfast things put away, and then Jill, drawing a ribbon from inside her dress, produced a small key. With this key she opened a small drawer, took some money out of an old stocking, locked the drawer again, slipped the key into its hiding-place, and went out.

      After she was gone Poll sat very still. The bright colour which always flamed in her cheeks had somewhat faded; her big, dark eyes looked weary. After a time she gave utterance to a low moan.

      “This pain’s orful,” she murmured. “I’d give the world for a nip of brandy. Coffee! What’s coffee when you ache as I ache? A sip or two of hot gin, or brandy and water, ’ud make me feel fine. Jill’s the best gel, but she don’t know what it is to have the thirst on her like me.”

      Poll went into the little sleeping-room and flung herself across the bed. When Jill returned with the flowers she found her lying there, her face white and drawn, her eyes closed.

      At the sound of the brisk step, Poll made a vigorous effort to sit up, but Jill’s young glance could not be deceived.

      “You shall not stir to sell a flower to-day,” she exclaimed. “You lie where you are, and take a good rest. I ha’ got some beauties in the way of flowers, and I’ll sell ’em all, and we’ll have a jolly supper to-night. I met Nat when I were out, and he said he’d come in to supper. You stay where you are, mother, and I’ll ask Mrs Stanley to come and see arter you. I know she will, ef I ask her.”

      “The pain’s werry bad this morning, Jill.”

      “Mrs Stanley shall go and fetch a bottle of that soothing stuff from the chemist round the corner. That’ll put you to sleep, and then you’ll be a sight better. Now I must go.”

      Jill kissed her mother, took up her flower-basket, stopped at the next landing to speak to Mrs Stanley, and finally tripped down-stairs with her basket of blooming flowers on her arm.

      Outside the house she was met by a tall fair-haired young costermonger who took her basket from her, and turned to walk by her side.

      “You shouldn’t do it, Nat,” she said. “It’s a sin to be wasting your time, and the morning’s late enough as it is.”

      “Late?” echoed the young giant with a gay laugh. “Why, it ain’t nine yet, Jill, and anyhow I stole the time from my breakfast. I can just walk as far as your stand with you. And you’ll give me a posy for my pains, won’t you?”

      “You choose it, Nat,” said Jill.

      “No, no, you must do that. Ain’t you got a rose under all ’em flaring poppies, and a bit o’ mignonette? Them’s my style. You make ’em up for me, Jill, in a posy, and I’ll wear ’em in my button-hole all day, no matter who chaffs me.”

      Jill replied by a gay little laugh. The summer in the day got more and more into her face. She gave Nat many shy and lovely glances.

      “Look yere,” he said suddenly; “you ain’t answered my question.”

      “What is it, lad?”

      “When are we to be married, Jill? I’ll ha’ a holiday in three weeks, and I thought we might go before the registrar just then, and afterwards go away for a week into the country. What do you say?”

      “Oh, I can’t say nothing. There’s mother, you know.”

      “But