Just at this moment, while poor Primrose was trying to train her unwilling voice, the door was opened, and Poppy, red in the face, and with her best hat and jacket on, came in.

“Miss Primrose, I’m come to say good-bye, I am.  No, Mrs. Mortlock, when about to quit I don’t fear you no longer—­not all the Sarahs in Europe would have power over me now.  I’m going.  Aunt Flint and me we has quarrelled, and I has given her fair warning, and I’m going back to my native place, maybe this evening.  Never no more will this city of wanities see me.  I’m off, Miss Primrose; I leaves Penelope Mansion now, and I go straight away to your place to bid Miss Jasmine and Miss Daisy good-bye.”

“For goodness sake, Sarah Matilda Ann!” here interrupted Mrs. Mortlock, speaking with great excitement, “before you go see you bring me up my beef-tea—­Mrs. Flint won’t give it a thought, and my nerves won’t keep up without the nourishment.  Run down to the kitchen this minute, Sarah Mary, and bring me up the beef-tea, and a nice little delicate slice of toast, done to a turn, to eat with it.  Mind you, don’t let the toast get burnt, for if I can’t see I can taste, and well know when my toast is burnt.”

Poppy was about to give a saucy answer, but a look from Primrose restrained her, and before she left Penelope Mansion she had provided the old lady with her luncheon.  Primrose said a few words of farewell and regret, and then Poppy set out, determined to take her chance of finding Jasmine and Daisy at home.

“I’ll go back to my own place to-night,” she said to herself, “and tell my mother that wanity of wanities is London—­my fifteen shillings will just buy me a single third, and I needn’t eat nothing until to-morrow morning.”

When Poppy arrived at Miss Egerton’s she was told by Bridget that Miss Jasmine was out, but that she would find Miss Daisy by herself upstairs.  Poppy ran nimbly up the stairs, and knocked at the sitting-room door; there was no answer, and turning the handle, she went in.  Daisy was lying with her face downwards on the sofa—­sobs and quivers shook her little frame, and for a time she did not even hear Poppy, who bent over her in some alarm.

“Now, Miss Daisy, darling, I’m real glad I has come in—­why, what is the matter, missie?”

“Nothing, Poppy; nothing indeed,” said Daisy, “except that I’m most dreadfully unhappy.  If I was a really quite unselfish little girl I’d go and live in a dungeon, but I couldn’t do it—­I couldn’t, really.”

Whatever Poppy was, she was practical—­she wasted no time trying to find out what Daisy meant, but bringing some cold water, she bathed the child’s face and hands, and then she made her take a drink of milk, and finally, she lifted her off the sofa, and sitting down in an arm-chair, took her in her arms, and laid her head on her breast.

“There now, pretty little dear, you’re better, aren’t you?”

“My body is better, thank you, Poppy—­I like to feel your arms holding me very tight.  My mind will never, never be well again, dear Poppy.”