POPPY WRITES A LETTER.
'Poppy, 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.
[Illustration]
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.