“Come back from the publishers,” Burton replied.  “I have sent it away to some one else.”

Mr. Waddington looked at him compassionately.

“You were relying upon that, were you not?”

“Entirely,” Burton admitted.  “If I don’t earn some money before Saturday, I shan’t know how to send the three pounds to Ellen.”

“You had better,” Mr. Waddington said gently, accept a trifling loan.

“Not if I can help it,” Burton answered, hastily.  “Thank you all the same, Mr. Waddington, but I would rather not.  We will see what happens.  I am going back now to try and write something.”

They returned to the office.  Burton pointed towards the easy-chair.

“Look!”

Mr. Waddington nodded.  Alfred had propped up the book of engravings before him, was holding a sheet of paper on the blotting-pad, and with a pencil was intently copying one of the heads.  They crossed the room and peered over his shoulder.  For an untrained child it was an amazing piece of work.

“It is a Botticelli head,” Mr. Waddington whispered.  “Look at the outline.”

The boy glanced up and saw them standing there.  He excused himself gracefully.

“You don’t mind, sir, do you?” he asked Mr. Waddington.  “I took a sheet of paper from your office.  This head was so wonderful, I wanted to carry away something that would remind me of it.”

“If you like,” Mr. Waddington offered, “I will lend you the book of engravings.  Then when your father is busy you could make copies of some that please you.”

The boy’s cheeks were pink and his eyes soft.

“How lovely!” he exclaimed.  “Father, may I have it?”

He left the office with the book clasped under his arm.  On the way home, Burton bought him some drawing-paper and pencils.  For the remainder of the afternoon they both worked in silence.  Of the two, the boy was the more completely engrossed.  Towards five o’clock Burton made tea, which they took together.  Alfred first carefully washed his hands, and his manners at table were irreproachable.  Burton began to feel uncomfortable.  He felt that the spirit of some older person had come to him in childlike guise.  There was so little to connect this boy with the Alfred of his recollections.  In looking over his work, too, Burton was conscious of an almost awed sense of a power in this child’s fingers which could have been directed by no ordinary inspiration.  From one to another of those prints, the outlines of which he had committed to paper, the essential quality of the work, the underlying truth, seemed inevitably to be reproduced.  There were mistakes of perspective and outline, crudities, odd little touches, and often a failure of proportion, and yet that one fact always remained.  The meaning of the picture was there.  The only human note about the child seemed to be that, looking at him shortly after tea-time, Burton discovered that he had fallen asleep in his chair.