"It would be poor thanks to Him who's given me so much, Jem, to say as I was too happy to be made sorrowful by helping any one in need."
Jem said no more, but went into the other room and fetched Meg's hat and jacket; but when they got outside in the brilliant light of the declining June sun, he said to himself, that he had never before seen his Meg look so beautiful.
The blanket was bought, a very ordinary one—"all wool" as Jem had said, remembering his mother's bringing-up, but not so good as to be immediately noticed and perhaps stolen in the large lodging-house in which the children lived.
Then they retraced their steps, and when they came to the court Jem stopped.
"I'll soon be home, my girl; you go on without me."
"Shan't I come too?" asked Meg.
"If you'd like to, my dear; but it ain't a nice place."
It was by this time getting dusk between the high houses, and Meg followed her husband in silence. It was the first time she had ever been into any crowded abode. A country cottage was the only experience she had had.
Jem led the way up the dark and rickety stairs to the very top, and then stooped his head under a low doorway.
The room was close under the roof, open to the tiles, and was very bare, but neat and orderly. On a mattress in the corner lay the little sufferer, while by him sat his crippled sister, nearly as pale and thin as he.