"Hadn't nowhere to go," she muttered.
"Have you no home?" said Miss Vane sternly.
"Only the cottage down by the pond where father lived. It is all shut up now."
"Where have you lived for the last few weeks? I heard that you were in the workhouse."
"Yes." Then, evidently with difficulty—"I ran away."
"Then you were a bad wicked girl to do so," said Miss Vane, with severity; "and you ought to be sent back again—and well whipped, into the bargain!"
Hubert made an impatient movement. He had never seen his aunt so much to her disadvantage. She was harsh, unwomanly, inhuman. Was it in this way that every woman would treat the poor child, remembering the story of her father's crime?
Miss Vane read the accusation in his eyes. She turned aside with an abrupt gesture, half of defiance, half of despair.
"I can't help it, Hubert," she said in an undertone. She raised her handkerchief to her eyes and dashed away a tear. "I feel it a wrong to Sydney, to Marion, to the child, that I should try to benefit any of Westwood's family. I can't bear to speak to her—I can't bear her in my sight. It makes me ill to see her."
She covered her eyes with her hand, so that she might not see the ragged miserable-looking little creature any longer.