“Come away,” said Robert, pulling at Anthea’s sleeve. “She’s a nasty, rude little kid.”
“Oh, no,” said Anthea. “She’s only dreadfully unhappy. What is it?” she asked again.
“Oh, you’re all right,” the child repeated; “you ain’t agoin’ to the Union.”
“Can’t we take you home?” said Anthea; and Jane added, “Where does your mother live?”
“She don’t live nowheres—she’s dead—so now!” said the little girl fiercely, in tones of miserable triumph. Then she opened her swollen eyes widely, stamped her foot in fury, and ran away. She ran no further than to the next bench, flung herself down there and began to cry without even trying not to.
Anthea, quite at once, went to the little girl and put her arms as tight as she could round the hunched-up black figure.
“Oh, don’t cry so, dear, don’t, don’t!” she whispered under the brim of the large sailor hat, now very crooked indeed. “Tell Anthea all about it; Anthea’lll help you. There, there, dear, don’t cry.”
The others stood at a distance. One or two passers-by stared curiously.
The child was now only crying part of the time; the rest of the time she seemed to be talking to Anthea.
Presently Anthea beckoned Cyril.