efully
adjusted behind his head; consequently the sudden slight start and swift
opening wide of his lazy-looking eyes passed unnoticed even by the eyes
of his uncle, who, indeed, would never have thought of looking for
alertness or energy in his nephew. 'I might,' he replied lazily. 'I don't
fancy the workhouse. Is there any chance of it?'

Somehow every one seemed to think this a joke, and his uncle remarked,
'No, the workhouse would not suit you; no easy-chairs there. It might do
you good, though.'

'I wish there was a chance of it! Now that _would_ be life!' cried Sarah
eagerly.

'Don't talk so silly, child; you don't know w'at the work'ouse is like.
It's enough to call down a judgment upon you, bein' so ungrateful to
Providence for all the good things it's given you,' cried her mother.
'Fancy the work'ouse after _this_!' Mrs Clay put a world of expression
into the last word, as she looked round the sumptuous drawing-room in
which they were gathered.

'Yes, it would be a change; though stranger things have happened,' said
Mr Howroyd in his brisk way, and again he missed the look George shot at
him.

'I should like to know if there is any chance of it,' George remarked.
'You haven't answered my question yet, uncle.'

'What question? Oh, whether there's any chance of your ever going to the
workhouse?' laughed his uncle. 'How can I tell? One hears of kings
becoming beggars, so why not Mr George Clay?'

'There's no chance of that,' remarked George.

'How do you know?' began his uncle.

'Don't you be too sure. Our mills might be burnt down, or anything might
happen,' cried Sarah.

'Oh, if you mean by a beggar being penniless, that's always possible, of
course. What I meant was that I should never beg,' said her brother with
quiet decision.

'What would you do? Work?' inquired his uncle.

'I fancy so,' said George; and they all laughed again, as though the idea
of George working was a good joke.

But Mrs Clay added, 'An' I'm sure George is clever enough to earn money
in any way 'e likes; though, thank 'eaven! 'e'll never 'ave to.'

'I'm not so sure of that,' replied that youth.

'What do you mean by that?' demanded his uncle.

'Just what you meant,' replied the nephew, and this time Mr William
Howroyd was struck by the expression on his nephew's face.

'I'm sure I don't know w'at you're all talkin' about--work'ouses, an'
workin' for your livin', an' Sarah wishin' she was poor, an' all! W'ere's
the go