oppy, 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'll tell you,' she said, 'for I am going to leave you, and you ought to know.' And then, instead of telling her, the poor woman burst into tears.

'Don't cry, mother, don't cry,' said the child; 'don't tell me if you'd rather not.'

'But I must tell you, Poppy,' she said, as she dried her eyes and looked into the fire. 'Poppy, I loved your father more than I can tell you, and he loved me, child; yes, he did love me; never you believe any one who tells you he didn't love me. He loved me, and he loved you, Poppy; he was very good to you, wasn't he, my child?'

'Yes, mother, very good,' said Poppy, as she remembered how kind he always was to her when he came in from work.

'But he got into bad company, Poppy, and he took to drinking. I wouldn't tell you, dear, only I'm going away, and so I think you ought to know. Well, bit by bit he was led away. Sometimes, dear, I blame myself, and think perhaps I might have done more to keep him at home; but he was always so pleasant with all his mates, and they made so much of him, and they led him on—yes, Poppy, they led him on—they did, indeed. And I saw him getting further and further wrong, and I could not stop him, and there were things which I didn't know about, dear—horse-racing, and card-playing, and all that sort of thing. And one day, Poppy,' said her mother, lowering her voice ('I wouldn't tell you, my dear, if I wasn't going away), one day he went out to his work as usual. I made him a cup of hot coffee to drink before he started; I always made him that, dear, if he was off ever so early.

'Well, he was ready to go, but he turned round at the door, and says he, "Is Poppy awake?" "No, the bairn was fast asleep when I came down," says I. He put down his breakfast-tin by the door, and he crept upstairs, and I could hear his steps in the room overhead, and then, Poppy, I listened at the foot of the stairs, and I heard him give you a kiss. I didn't say anything, child, when he came down, for I thought maybe he wouldn't like me to notice it, and he hurried out, as if he was afraid I should ask him what he was doing.

'Well, dear, dinner-time came, and I always had it ready and waiting for him, for I think it's a sin and a shame, Poppy, when them that works for the meat never has time given them to eat it. But the dinner waited long enough that day, child, for he never came home. I began to think something must be wrong, for he always came home of a dinner-hour. I thought maybe he had had some drink; but, Poppy, it was worse than that, for oh! my darling, he never came home no more.'

'What was wrong with him, mother?'

'He was in debt, child, and had lost money in them horrid races; and there were more things than that, but I can't tell you all, my dear, nor I don't want to tell. Only this I want to say: if he ever comes back, Poppy, tell him I loved him to the last, and I prayed for him to the last, and I shall look to meet him in heaven; mind you tell him that, Poppy, my dear.'

'Yes, mother,' said the child, with tears in her eyes; 'I won't forget.'

'And now about the letter; I wish I could write to your father, Poppy, but I've never had a word from him all this cruel long time—not a single word, child; and where he is at this moment I know no more than that table does.'

'Then who is the letter to be written to, mother?' asked the child.

'It's to your granny, Poppy, I want to write; his mother, your father's mother. I never saw her, child, but she's a good old woman, I believe; he always talked a deal about his mother, and many a time I've thought I ought to write and tell her, but somehow I hadn't the heart to do it, Poppy. But now she must be told.'

'When shall I write it, mother?'

'Here's a penny, child; go and get a sheet and an envelope from the shop at the end of the street, and if the babies will only keep asleep, we'll write it at once.'

The paper was bought, and Poppy seated herself on a high stool, and wrote as her mother told her:—

'My dear Grandmother,

'This comes, hoping to find you quite well, as it leaves my mother very ill, and the doctor says she'll never be no better, and my Father went away last year, and nobody knows what has become of him, and he never writes nor sends no money nor nothing, and Mother has got two little babies, and they are both boys, and she wants me to ask you to pray God to take care of us, and will you please write us a letter?

'Your affectionate grand-daughter,
'Poppy.'

It was well that the letter was finished then, for that very night Poppy's mother was taken very much worse, and the next morning she was not able to rise from her bed.

And now began a very hard time for the little girl. Two babies to look after, and a sick mother to nurse, was almost more than it was possible for one small pair of arms to manage. The neighbours were very kind, and came backwards and forwards, bringing Poppy's mother tempting things to eat, and carrying off dirty clothes to wash at home, or any little piece of work which Poppy could not manage. And often, very often, one or another of them would come and sit by the sick woman, or would carry off the crying babies to their own homes, that she might have a little rest and quiet.

But, in spite of all this kind help, it was a very hard time for Poppy. The neighbours had their own homes and their own families to attend to, and could only give their spare time to the care of their sick neighbour. And at night Poppy had a weary time of it. Her mother was weak and restless, and full of fever and of pain, and she tossed about on her pillow hour after hour, watching her good little daughter with tears in her eyes, as she walked up and down with the babies, trying to soothe them to sleep.

Sometimes she would try to sit up in bed, and hold little Enoch or Elijah for a few moments: but she had become so terribly weak that the effort was too much for her, and after a few minutes she would fall back fainting on her pillow, and Poppy had to take the baby away and bathe her mother's forehead with water before she could speak to her again.

So it was a weary and anxious time for the child. The neighbours said she was growing an old grandmother, so careworn and anxious had she become, and Poppy herself could hardly believe that she was the same little girl who had gazed in the toy-shop window only a few months ago and had longed for one of those beautiful wax-dolls. She felt too old and tired ever to care to play again.