“Presently, however, fatigued with my work, I indulged in a great yawn, and rose to stretch myself. I then perceived that my audience was more select than numerous, consisting of only one individual--a young person in a Welsh chimney-pot hat. Closer observation showed me that said hat was set on a head of closely cropped curly black hair, beneath which there shone a brown boyish face freckled with sun and wind, a pair of bright black eyes, and a laughing mouth with two rows of the whitest of teeth. But the face, though boyish, did not belong to a boy. The young person was dressed in an old cotton gown, had a coloured woollen shawl or scarf thrown oyer the shoulders, and wore thick woollen stockings and rough shoes, the latter many sizes too large. The gown was too short for the wearer, who had evidently outgrown it; it reached only just below the knee, and when the young person moved one caught a glimpse of something very much resembling a dilapidated garter. “The young person’s smile was so bright and good-humoured that I found myself answering it with a friendly nod. “‘How are you?’ I said gallantly. ‘I hope you are quite well?’ “She nodded in reply, and stooping down, plucked a long blade of grass, which she placed in her mouth and began to nibble--bashfully, I thought. “‘May I ask where you come from?’ I said. ‘I mean, where do you live?’ “Without speaking, she stretched out her arm and pointed across the lake in the direction of the sea. I could not help noticing then, as an artist, that the sleeve of her gown was loose and torn, and that her arm was round and well-formed, and her hand, though rough and sun-burned, quite genteelly small. “‘If it is not inquisitive, may I ask your name?’ “‘Matt,’ was the reply. “‘Is that all? What is your other name?’ “‘I’ve got no other name. I’m Matt, I am.’ “‘Indeed. Do your parents live here?’ “‘Got no parents,’ was the reply. “‘Your relations, then. You belong to some one, I suppose?’ “She gave me another nod. “‘Yes,’ she answered, nibbling rapidly. ‘I belong to William Jones.’ “‘Oh, to _him_,’ I said, feeling as familiar with the name as if I had known it all my life. ‘But he’s not your father?’ “She shook her head emphatically. “‘But of course he’s a relation?’ “Another shake of the head. “‘But you belong to him?’ I said, considerably puzzled. ‘Where were you born?’ “‘I wasn’t born at all,’ answered Matt. ‘I come ashore.’ “This was what the immortal Dick. Swiveller would have called a ‘staggerer.’ I looked at the girl again, inspecting her curiously from top to toe. Without taking her eyes from mine, she stood on one leg bashfully, and fidgeted with the other foot. She was certainly not bad-looking, though, evidently a very rough diamond. Even the extraordinary head-gear became her well. “‘I know what you are doing there,’ she cried suddenly, pointing to my easel. ‘You, was painting!’