“We’ve got the chickens,” Meg answered as gloomily, “but it wouldn’t do any good. Miracles are over.”
“The world is all different,” said Robin. “You have to do your miracle yourself.”
“It will be a miracle,” Meg said, “if we ever get away from Aunt Matilda’s world, and live like people instead of like pigs who are comfortable—and we shall have to perform it ourselves.”
“There is no one else,” said Robin. “You see, there is no one else in the world.”
He threw out his hand and it clutched Meg’s, which was lying in the straw near him. He did not know why he clutched it—he did not in the least know why; nor did she know why a queer sound in his voice suddenly made her feel their unfriendedness in a way that overwhelmed her. She found herself looking at him, with a hard lump rising in her throat. It was one of the rainy days, and the hollow drumming and patter of the big drops on the roof seemed somehow to shut them in with their loneliness away from all the world.
“It’s a strange thing,” she said, almost under her breath, “to be two children, only just twelve years old, and to be quite by ourselves in such a big world, where there are such millions and millions of people all busy doing things and making great plans, and none of them knowing about us, or caring what we are going to do.”
“If we work our miracle ourselves,” said Rob, holding her hand quite tight, “it will be better than having it worked for us. Meg!”—as if he were beginning a new subject—“Meg!”
“What?” she answered, still feeling the hard lump in her throat.
“Do you think we are going to stay here always?”
“I—oh, Robin, I don’t know.”