ent sprang out like a switchman, finally shifting the train of
the talk.

"Oh!" said Cally, staring bewildered at her cousin. "Why--where are the
Works--from here, I mean ...?"

Hen's strange look, confirmed her own confused conviction that she was
appearing at an annoying disadvantage all at once. And forebodings
possessed her, as of one walking wide-eyed into unsuspected perils.

"You _are_ lost, Cally, indeed. Why, my dear, we're right on the corner
of Seventeenth and Canal now--they're leaning right up against your
nose. There!"

Following Hen's nod, Cally's gaze rested again on the somewhat
displeasing pile on the corner, this time with a seeing eye. Her
fascinated stare took in with one sweep a dirty ramshackle building of
weather-worn gray brick, spilling over the sidewalk and staggering away
(as it looked) down the littered side-street: rather a small building,
obviously old, certainly not fragrant, quite sinister-looking
somehow....

The girl felt as if the skies were falling. She perceived that there was
some mistake. "Oh ... You mean that is part of them? But the--the main
part, I suppose, is--"

"No, this is all there is of 'em, Cally!" said Hen, suddenly with a kind
note in her voice. And she waved upward toward a wire screen atop the
ancient building, where large black letters spelled out:

THE HETH CHEROOT WORKS

_"Is that the Works?"_ breathed the daughter of the Works, with a sort
of stunned incredulity.

In her utter bewilderment, she was confused into glancing at Jack
Dalhousie's friend, who stood silent upon the sidewalk, two yards away.
Thus she surprised his translucent eyes fixed upon her with a look which
she had seen there on two other remembered occasions. The eager
confidence had, indeed, faded from his face, but not as she had designed
that it should fade. The man had the grace to look away at once, seeming
embarrassed: but in one glance she saw that he had read to the heart of
what she felt, thus discovering the real birthplace of her Family. And
his eyes had said to her, quite plainly, that of course he would not on
any account ask her to stop now; and that, on the whole, God must pity
her again for a poor little thing who did not even know where and how
her own father made his money....

She could have cried for the angry mortification of this moment, but
perhaps that confrontation steadied her as nothing else could have done.
She said hurriedly, but with some degree of n