They heard the man leave the house a few minutes later, and then it did not take them long to dress and go down the narrow, broken-balustraded stairs again. As they descended the first flight they saw the woman cooking something over the stove in her kitchen, and as she moved about they saw her brush her apron across her eyes.
The squalid street was golden with the early morning sunshine, which is such a joyful thing, and, in the full, happy flood of it, a miserable little figure sat crouched on the steps. It was the boy Ben, and they saw that he looked paler than he had looked the night before, and his little face looked older. His elbow was on his knee and his cheek on his hand, and there were wet marks on his cheeks.
A large lump rose up in Meg’s throat.
“I know what’s the matter,” she whispered to Robin.
“So—so do I,” Robin answered, rather unsteadily. “And he’s poorer than anybody else. It ought not to go by him.”
“No, no,” said Meg. “It oughtn’t.”
She walked straight to the threshold and sat down on the step beside him. She was a straightforward child, and she was too much moved to stand on ceremony. She sat down quite close by the poor little fellow, and put her hand on his arm.
“Never you mind,” she said. “Never you mind.” And her throat felt so full that for a few seconds she could say nothing more.
Robin stood against the door post. The effect of this was to make his small jaw square itself.
“Don’t mind us at all,” he said. “We—we know.”