With Madeline’s aid Uncle Luke spelt out the inscription, and it filled him with complete consternation. There being no date to the announcement, ‘this day week’ was curiously indefinite, particularly as the paper showed signs of having been there for a considerable time already. While he stood gaping and scratching his head the studio door suddenly opened, and a very small boy with a very old face, clad in a very dirty page’s uniform, made his appearance. ‘Well, what is it’ cried this worthy, snappishly. ‘Who do you want?’ Uncle Luke took off his hat respectfully, and handed over the paper. Strange to say, the boy would not deign to inspect it. ‘If it’s the milk bill, you’re to call again next week. If it’s a summons, nobody ain’t at home. Which of the gents is it for?’ ‘I’m a-looking for Master White,’ said Uncle Luke, timidly, ‘and if you please----’ ‘But he don’t please,’ answered the boy, with a fierce sense of grievance. ‘He ain’t at home. Didn’t you see the paper on that there door?’ At this juncture another head appeared in the background, and a pair of human eyes seemed rapidly to inspect the intruders. Then a voice said-- ‘It’s all right, Judas. Let ’em come in.’ Thus instructed, the page threw open the door, and Uncle Luke entered, with Madeline clinging to him. Their astonishment was considerable when they found themselves in a large apartment, lighted by glass windows from above, and full of all the paraphernalia of an artist’s workshop--several easels, two or three lay figures, paintings in various states of completion. In one corner stood a stove, on the top of which was a loaf of brown bread and a tin coffee pot, and close to the stove was a perfect hecatomb of egg-shells. Indeed, what with general dust and debris of all kinds, the entire ‘studio’ seemed sadly in need of cleaning out. Fronting them as they entered was the only tenant of the apartment--a young man with a very light moustache, a watery blue eye, and a large amount of unkempt flaxen hair. He grasped a palette in one hand, a paint brush in the other, and in his mouth he held a black meerschaum pipe. ‘Is it anything I can do for you?’ he said, with a rather vacant smile. ‘I’m Mr. Cheveley.’ ‘I want to see Master White,’ said Uncle Luke in a faltering voice. ‘I’ve come all the way from the country, all along o’ Madlin, here. Haven’t I, Madlin? If so be he’s away, can’t some one fetch him, and tell him Luke Peartree wants him, and that Uncle Mark’s dead, and that poor Aunt Jane’s a widder, and that things has all gone contrary, and all our hearts is broke?’ Tears rose in Uncle Luke’s eyes, and he stood choking, while Madeline clung to him and began crying too. The young man looked at them in astonishment for some minutes; then, struck by an idea, he walked rapidly to an inner door and cried loudly-- ‘Here, White.’ A sleepy voice answered from within-- ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘Some one to see you--come, get up!’