up the clock.
‘She said it,’ repeated Flossy, coming up close to her brother, and fixing her anxious eyes on the baby. ‘She said that our Dickory was to go to the workhouse.’
‘Well then, she shan’t!’ said Peter. ‘I know nothing about workhouses, but I expect they are very nasty places, and Dickory shan’t go there!’
Then he sat silent, his arm round the little child, who looked up at him and then back at Flossy, and then smiled in that wonderfully pathetic way she had.
‘Look here, Flossy,’ said Peter, ‘if you are quite certain sure that mother said the workhouse, that she didn’t say nothing about Dickory Dock being put to sleep in another room, or maybe down in the kitchen–if you are quite positive about the workhouse, Flossy, why, I know what I’ll do.’
‘She did say the workhouse,’ answered Flossy; ‘I heard her with my own ears, and Mr Martin said it was a stream measure. I don’t know what he meant by that, but I do know that mother said the workhouse, and that she has got t