Robin pulled her fur
from her throat and wrapped it about the shivering, sobbing child.
"Yer takin' awful chances, miss--just _awful_," warned the neighbor,
edging backward toward her house with the air of having completed her
duty. "If y' take my advice you'll leave the kid there 'til some'un
comes. They'll likely take her t' the poor-house!" And with this
cheerful assumption she slammed her door.
"There! There! Robin'll take you home. Don't cry," begged Robin,
kneeling in the path and encircling poor little Susy in her arms. "We'll
go back to the big house and Robin'll make you nice and warm."
"I want Granny!" wailed the child, feeling her miserable little world
rocking about her.
Robin straightened and looked at the house. Granny was dead, the
neighbor had said; nothing more could be done for her. But something in
the desolation of the place, the boarded door, the dingy window stuffed
with its rags, smote Robin. Poor Granny must have died all alone. No one
had even whispered a good-bye. And she lay in there all alone. Robin
knew little of death; to her it had always meant a beautiful passing to
somewhere, with lovely flowers and music and gentle grief.
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