The answer seemed a combination of strong expressions, combined with inarticulate groans. After listening for a moment, Cheveley turned to Uncle Luke-- ‘Here, I say!’ he said, with the vacant helpless manner peculiar to him. ‘He’s writing in bed, and he won’t rise. You’d better go in and explain your own business. The little girl can wait here.’ Not without some little fear and trembling, Uncle Luke released Madeline’s hand, and moved with timid steps into the inner room. It was a very small chamber, furnished as a bedroom; that is to say, it contained an iron bedstead, a washstand, a table, and other conveniences. A chest of drawers gaping open was covered with articles of attire in most admired disorder, and other articles were hung on the walls or scattered about the room. Perched up on the bed, with an embroidered smoking-cap on his head, was a gentleman in gold spectacles. He was writing rapidly with a pencil in a large manuscript book, and he scarcely looked up as Uncle Luke entered. But when Uncle Luke, whose heart was full and overflowed at the sight of one whom he believed to be a friend of the family, trotted over to the bedside and took his hand, crying like a child, he dropped his notebook and seemed aghast. Then, recognising his visitor, he questioned him, and soon knew the whole sad story--of Uncle Mark’s accidental death, of the break-up of the little home, of the despair of the family, and their conviction that they could no longer do their duty by Madeline. ‘And Madlin’s here,’ cried Uncle Luke. ‘I brung her, but, Lord, she don’t guess _why_ I brung her; she thinks she’s a-going back. Oh, Mr. White, be a father to her! She ain’t got ne’er another, now her Uncle Mark’s dead.’ Mr. White wiped his spectacles, and seemed utterly stupefied; at last he nodded, as if he had made up his mind. ‘Give me those trousers,’ he said, ‘I’ll get up.’ In another minute he had slipped into an old pair of tweed trousers, a pair of very dirty fancy slippers, and an old dressing-gown. Thus attired he even looked less engaging than when composing in bed. His hands were greatly in need of soap, his whiskers were ragged and ornamented with fragments of yolk of egg, and his face, which was otherwise kindly and good-humoured, looked parboiled. Seizing a brush, he went through the formality of brushing the very minute bunches of hair which ornamented his bald head, and then, after a momentary struggle with his whiskers, led the way into the ‘studio.’ Here they found Madeline in high delight, for Cheveley, seizing a piece of charcoal, had dashed off a rough likeness of her on a canvas which stood vacant. The wild locks, the great wistful eyes, the delicate mouth, were happily caught, and for the moment the child forgot all her troubles. ‘Look, Uncle Luke,’ she cried, running to him and pointing out the likeness. ‘It’s me.’