er from further indiscretions.
She stirred the porridge vigorously, while her cheeks burned.

"Yes, they were," Mrs. Motherwell said quietly.

Pearl set the porridge on the back of the stove and ran out to where
the poppies nodded gaily. Never before had they seemed so beautiful.
Mrs. Motherwell watched her through the window bending over them.
Something about the poppies appealed to her now. She had once wanted
Tom to cut them down, and she thought of it now.

She tapped on the window. Pearl looked up, startled.

"Bring in some," she called.

When the work was done for the morning, Mrs. Motherwell went up the
narrow stair way to the little room over the kitchen to gather together
Polly's things.

She sat on Polly's little straw bed and looked at the dismal little
room. Pearl had done what she could to brighten it. The old bags and
baskets had been neatly piled in one corner, and quilts had been spread
over them to hide their ugliness from view. The wind blew gently in the
window that the hail had broken. The floor had been scrubbed clean and
white--the window, what was left of it--was shining.

She was reminded of Polly everywhere she looked. The mat under her feet
was one that Polly had braided. A corduroy blouse hung at the foot of
the bed. She remembered now that Polly had worn it the day she came.

In a little yellow tin box she found Polly's letters--the letters that
had given her such extravagant joy. She could see her yet, how eagerly
she would seize them and rush up to this little room with them,
transfigured.

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