Was he indeed in the workhouse he had pre--ferred to Cairncarque?
It could hardly be, for there was the plaster fallen in great patches from the walls as well as the ceiling, and surely no workhouse would be allowed to get into such a disrepair! He tried again, and this time succeeded in turning on his side, discovering in the process how hard the bed was, and how sharp his bones.

A wooden chair stood a little beyond his reach, and upon it a bottle and teacup.

Not another article could he discover.

Right under the hole in the ceiling a board was partly rotted away in the floor, and a cold, damp air, smelling of earth, and decaying wood, seemed to come steaming up through it.

A few minutes more, he said to himself, and he would get up, and out of the hideous place, but he must lie a little longer first, just to come to himself!--Now he would try!--What had become of his strength?
Was it gone utterly?
Could one night's illness have reduced him thus?
He seemed to himself unable to think, yet the profoundest thought went on as if thinking itself in him.