There was only one thing to be done now. Mr. Mitchell's hour was up, but there was no help for it. The Workhouse, as the girl had said—she might, in June's opinion have had a claim to good looks if she had not suffered from "a rush of teeth to the head"—was not more than five minutes away if you followed her instructions.
As June had the matter in hand, the instructions were followed to the letter and they arrived at the Workhouse without delay. But as the pile, dark and grim, came into view at the far side of the canal, an odd emotion suddenly brought them up with a round turn.
A long moment they gazed at the bleak and frowning thing before their eyes. And then June said with a laugh, "I'm thinking that's where you'll be one day, if you don't find someone who isn't a genius to look after you."
The words came from the heart, yet William did not appear to hear them. "Reminds one," he murmured half to himself, "of that little thing of Duclaux's called The Poor House."
June's puzzlement was revealed by a frown.
"There's an exhibition of his pictures just now at
