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.
Burton took up his hat and stole softly out of the room.