mean the Fair people," widening her eyes with a little shiver.
"They won't be," said Rob. "Those things have stopped happening."
"Yes, they have," said Meg. "Sometimes I wish they hadn't. If they hadn't—perhaps—perhaps if we made burnt-offerings, we might be taken by a miracle to see the World's Fair."
"We haven't anything to burn," said Rob rather gloomily.
"We've got the chickens," Meg answered as gloomily, "but it wouldn't do any good. Miracles are over."
"The world is all different," said Robin. "You have to do your miracle yourself."
"It will be a miracle," Meg said, "if we ever get away from Aunt Matilda's world, and live like people instead of like pigs who are comfortable; and we shall have to perform it ourselves."
"There is no one else," said Robin. "You see there is no one else in the world."
He threw out his hand and clutched Meg's, which was lying on the straw near him. He did not know why he clutched it; he did not in the least know why, nor did she know why a queer sound in his voice suddenly made her feel their unfriendedness in a way
