maybe we've bargained for too much, tryin' to keep even _one_. So it's
best to let the little one go before we get to settin' sech store by
him that we can't."

A vague terror seized Steven as he realized who it was they were
talking about. He lay awake a long time that night smoothing Robin's
tangled curls, and crying at the thought of the motherless baby away
among strangers, with no one to snuggle him up warm or sing him to
sleep. Then there was another thought that wounded him deeply. Twist
it whichever way he might, he could construe Mr. Dearborn's last
remark to mean but one thing. They considered him a burden. How many
plans he made night after night before he fell asleep! He would take
Robin by the hand in the morning, and they would slip away and wander
off to the woods together. They could sleep in barns at night, and he
could stop at the farmhouses and do chores to pay for what they ate.
Then they need not be a trouble to any one. Maybe in the summer they
could find a nice dry cave to live in. Lots of people had lived that
way. Then in a few years he would be big enough to have a house of his
own. All sorts of improbable plans flocked into his little brain under
cover of the darkness, but always vanished when the daylight came.

The next Saturday that they went to town was a cold, blustering day.
They started late, taking a lunch with them, not intending to come
home until the middle of the afternoon.

The wind blew a perfect gale by the time they reached town. Mr.
Dearborn stopped his team in front of one of the principal groceries,
saying, "Hop out, Steven, and see what they're paying for turkeys
to-day."