Mr. Blyth’s present depression of spirits was not entirely attributable to a certain ominous reluctance to leave home, which he had been vainly trying to shake off since the morning. He had a secret reason for his uneasiness which happened to be intimately connected with the model, whose Herculean chest and arms he was now busily engaged in drawing. The plain fact was, that Mr. Blyth’s tender conscience smote him sorely, when he remembered the trust Mrs. Thorpe placed in his promised supervision over her son, and when he afterwards reflected that he still knew as little of Zack’s strange companion, as Zack did himself. His visit to Kirk Street, undertaken for the express purpose of guarding the lad’s best interests by definitely ascertaining who Mr. Mathew Marksman really was, had ended in--what he was now ashamed to dwell over, or even to call to mind. “Dear, dear me!” thought Mr. Blyth, while he worked away silently at the outline of his drawing, “I ought to find out whether this very friendly, good-natured, and useful man is fit to be trusted with Zack; and now the lad is out of the room, I might very well do it. Might? I will!” And, acting immediately on this conscientious resolve, simple-hearted Mr. Blyth actually set himself to ask Mat the important question of who he really was! Mat was candor itself in answering all inquiries that related to his wanderings over the American Continent. He confessed with the utmost frankness that he had been sent to sea, as a wild boy whom it was impossible to keep steady at home; and he quite readily admitted that he had not introduced himself to Zack under his real name. But at this point his communicativeness stopped. He did not quibble, or prevaricate; he just bluntly and simply declared that he would tell nothing more than he had told already. “I said to the young ‘un,” concluded Mat, “when we first come together, ‘I haven’t heard the sound of my own name for better than twenty year past; and I don’t care if I never hear it again.’ That’s what I said to _him._ That’s what I say to _you._ I’m a rough ‘un, I know; but I hav’n’t broke out of prison, or cheated the gallows--” “My dear sir,” interposed Valentine, eagerly and alarmedly, “pray don’t imagine any such offensive ideas ever entered my head! I might perhaps have thought that family troubles--” “That’s it,” Mat broke in quickly. “Family troubles. Drop it there; and you’ll leave it right.” Before Mr. Blyth could make any attempt to shift the conversation to some less delicate topic, he was interrupted (to his own great relief) by the return of young Thorpe to the studio.