‘Mr. White, that first brought her to us, and pays to this day for her keep. He’s not her father, nor yet much kin of hers at all; but for all that he’s a good gentleman, and will do his duty by her. We’ll try him, anyways. If he takes her it will be a sore day for me, but a lucky chance for little Madlin.’ Uncle Luke listened quietly, and soon endorsed Aunt Jane’s opinion, that the very best they could do for Madeline was to take her up to London and hand her over to the care of her natural guardian--the benevolent-looking gentleman who left her at the cottage when an infant, and had contributed to her maintenance ever since. ‘Don’t let her know nothing about it, Luke,’ added Mrs. Peartree, ‘or Lord only knows what she would do. After she’s growed up, bless her, she’d thank us for doin’ it, even if we could help it, which we can’t.’ This piece of logic pleased Uncle Luke unmeasurably, and he went to bed tolerably contented with Aunt Jane’s mode of working, and quite convinced that she was doing everything for the best. The succeeding days were very sad ones in the cottage, and though Madeline was almost overwhelmed with her grief for Uncle Mark, she could not help wandering at the strange conduct of those whom he had left behind. If she happened to come within arm’s length of Aunt Jane she was certain to be caught up and kissed; if Uncle Luke’s eye fell upon her, he burst into tears; at meal times she had three times too much food crammed upon her plate; if she approached the fire, her chair was drawn so close as to almost scorch her. But the crowning point came when she was told one morning that she was to go to London, for a day’s ‘outing’ with Uncle Luke. It was decided that Luke should take her. ‘He had seen a good deal of the city,’ Mrs. Peartree said, ‘and would do the errand better than she.’ Luke was quite contented, so it was settled forthwith. Despite her bereavement, Madeline could not help feeling glad at the thought of realising her dream at last. Childish griefs are not very enduring, and at another time a visit to London would have sent her mad with joy. But her pleasure was considerably damped when she saw Aunt Jane cry so, and Uncle Luke look so very sad. ‘Madlin, darlin’,’ cried Mrs. Peartree, embracing her for the twentieth time, ‘you’re a-going to see kind friends up in London; and maybe, if you’re a good girl, they’ll ask you to stay a bit, and see the wax-work, and all the fine sights. And if you stay, don’t forget your Aunt Jane that brung you up, and loves you so dear--God bless’ee, Madlin! God bless’ee, and make a lady of ye--my own little darling gel!’ Quite bewildered, the child suffered herself to be led away by Uncle Luke. After ferrying across the river and walking a mile, they reached the railway station.