Mrs. Motherwell would have to look at them to find out
Polly's mother's address. She took out the first letter
slowly, then hurriedly put it back again in the envelope
and looked guiltily around the room. But it had to be
done. She took it out again resolutely, and read it with
some difficulty.
It was written in a straggling hand that wandered
uncertainly over the lines. It was a pitiful letter
telling of poverty bitter and grinding, but redeemed from
utter misery by a love and faith that shone from every
line:
My dearest polly i am glad you like your plice and
your misses is so kind as wot you si, yur letters are
my kumfit di an nit. bill is a ard man and says hif
the money don't cum i will ave to go to the workus.
but i no you will send it der polly so hi can old my
little plice hi got a start todi a hoffcer past hi
that it wos the workhus hoffcer. bill ses he told im
to cum hif hi cant pi by septmbr but hi am trustin
God der polly e asn't forgot us. hi 'm glad the poppies
grew. ere's a disy hi am sendin yu hi can mike the
butonoles yet. hi do sum hevry di mrs purdy gave me
fourpence one di for sum i mide for her hi ad a cup
of tee that di. hi am appy thinkin of yu der polly.
"And Polly is dead!" burst from Mrs. Motherwell as
something gathered in her throat. She laid the letter
down and looked straight ahead of her.
The sloping walls of the little kitchen loft, with its
cobwebbed beams faded away, and she was looking into a
squalid little room where an old woman, bent and feeble,
sat working buttonholes with trembling fingers.
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