"Georgie"
"She's ill," he said. "Cancer. Old lady can't last out more than a month or two at the most, the doctor told me. Poor look-out for this chap."
"The doctor?"
"A man in the lane told me the story, and so I waited for the doctor to see if it was true. It is—quite. He said she was dying by inches. Young Evan Davies, or David Evans, I forget which, was being dragged up by any odd neighbor who happened to drop in, and when the aunt dies there's nothing for him but the workhouse. He took to me at once."
"But," said I hastily, "has the child no other relations?"
"No," Georgie replied solemnly, "at least no one who would take him. Every one seems to have twelve or fourteen kids of their own, and they say Taffy doesn't get on with other children. He's not popular at school, I gather. It's his high spirits. They don't take to high spirits in the workhouse, I believe. Try to break 'em."
Drusilla broke the long silence.
124
