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.
When she got into the train her contentment in a measure returned. She nestled up to Uncle Luke’s side, stealing her little hand into his, and looked with rapture at the fields gliding past her so rapidly—at the river with its shining bends. As she went on her wonder deepened, and her excitement grew—for she passed little towns, then big stations covered with shining pictures, like palaces—until at length when she felt deep in Dreamland, they glided under a great arch of glass, and Uncle Luke, exclaiming ‘Here we be,’ rose up and prepared to alight from the train.
CHAPTER VII.—INTRODUCES A DISTINGUISHED LITERARY BOHEMIAN.
Still lost in wonder, Madeline alighted from the train, and, clutching Uncle Luke’s hand, moved along with the crowd that was surging out of the station.
Once outside, amidst the din of rattling cabs and excited passengers, Uncle Luke seemed perplexed what to do next. He took off his high hat, and scratched his head; and this appeared to remind him that he had a paper carefully tucked into the hat’s lining. So he searched for and found the paper, on which was written, in a round, clear hand—