of the waiting angels, hovering over the place where her mother lay dead.
'Meg,' said Robin, 'why do they call this Angel Court? Did the angels use to live here?'
'I don't think they ever could,' she answered sadly, 'or it must have been a long, long time ago. Perhaps they can't come here now, so they're waiting for mother to be taken out to the burying-ground afore they can carry her up to the sky. May be that's it.'
'Meg,' whispered Robin, pressing closer to her side, 'what's the devil?'
'Oh, I don't know,' cried Meg; 'only he's dreadfully, dreadfully wicked.'
'As wicked as father is when he's drunk?' asked Robin.
'Oh, a hundred million times wickeder,' answered Meg eagerly. 'Father doesn't get drunk often; and you mustn't be a naughty boy and talk about it.'
It was already a point of honour with little Meg to throw a cloak over her father's faults; and she spoke so earnestly that Robin was strongly impressed by it. He asked no more questions for some time.
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