"Not in the pulpit," said the old man. "I curl away in the pulpit, and put my head on an old cushion—it's snug up in the pulpit. Don't tell of me—now don't, there's good folks!"
"But what do you want a light for?" said Mr. Robin gravely.
"Just to eat my supper by," he said. "It's so dark in there. I feel lonesome when I'm eating my supper. I put it out as soon as ever I've done."
"Then you're not blind!" said Stephen's father, holding up the board which had been hanging round his neck.
"No," he said; "I wear that because they give me more coppers if I do. I haven't very good sight; it's dim-like, but I'm not so blind as all that."
"Oh dear, oh dear!" said Mr. Robin. "This is a very sad story."
"Don't tell of me—" said the old man, whimpering like a child, "don't tell of me!"
"We must think what's to be done," said Granny Robin; "we'll talk it over to-night."
"And you may sleep on this sofa till morning," added Mr. Robin. "We are trusting you very much by letting you stay under our roof; but we can't turn you out in the rain. You won't disappoint our trust, will you?"
"No, I won't, sir," said old Joe; "and thank you kindly, sir!"