All the burden now lay upon one pair of young shoulders--Madeline’s; and, to quote a homely but expressive phrase, she absolutely did not know where to turn. She had neither money nor friends. Her husband had no capital; his slender fortune had been invested in his education and profession. And as to his friends and his distant connections, they had disowned him. When they had heard of what they were good enough to call “his low marriage with a teacher in a school,” they had washed their hands of him with wonderful unanimity. Society had lost sight of him for months; Mr. and Mrs. Wynne had no acquaintances. Poor Madeline was in terrible straits, but her courage rose with the occasion; she was brave and energetic, and did not sit down with her hands before her and cry. A schoolfellow of her husband’s (another young barrister) came to see her and him, and gave help in the shape of advice, which for once was valuable. They moved to the top story--the attics. (That was a step of which their landlady highly approved.) And he procured some law copying for Madeline--who wrote a clear, neat hand--which brought in a few shillings, and kept the actual wolf from the door. He sent fish, grapes, and other little delicacies to the invalid, and was in truth that _rara avis_--a friend in need. He considered that Wynne had behaved like a madman in marrying on nothing; but certainly the girl was an immense temptation--so young, so pretty--such eyes he had never seen--so unsophisticated and fresh, and yet possessing excellent sense and an elastic and dauntless spirit. Here for once was an instance in which poverty had not thrust love out of the window. Strange, but true, their reverses had only served to draw the Wynnes more closely together. They afforded a refreshing study to Mr. Jessop, who was a cynic and a philosopher in a small way, and who sneered and snarled and marvelled. Things had not even come to the worst with these unfortunate people, not until a third was added to the establishment in the shape of a Master Wynne, who puckered up his wrinkled red face, thrust his creasy fists into his eyes, and made hideous grimaces at the world in which he found himself--and in which, to tell the truth, he was not particularly wanted, except by his mother, to whom he was not only welcome, but, in her partial eyes, a little household god! His father, who was slowly recovering--an emaciated spectre of what he had been--was dubious with regard to the striking resemblance to himself, and frequently wondered in his inmost soul, as to what was to be the future of his son and heir? How was he to be fed, clothed, and educated? Dismal echoes answered, “How?” for the Wynnes were now desperately poor.