“More plunder, Mr. Monk?” he said; “no, no; the days for finding that is gone. Matt and me has been on the shore foraging for a bit o’ firewood,--that be all. Put it down, Matt; put it down.” Matt did as she was told: opening her arms, she threw her load into a corner of the room; then William Jones hurried the whole party back into the kitchen. The men seated themselves on benches; but Matt moved about the room to get a light. The light as well as everything else was a living illustration of the meanness ol William Jones. It consisted, not of a candle, but of a long rush, which had been gathered from the marshes by Matt, and afterwards dried and dipped in grease by William Jones. Matt lit it, and fixed it in a little iron niche which was evidently made for the purpose and which was attached to a table near the hearth. When the work was finished she threw off her hat and jacket, retired to the further end of the hearth, and sat down on the floor. During the whole of this time Mr. Monk had been watching her gloomily; and he had been watched in his turn by William Jones. At last the latter spoke. “Matt’s growed,” said he; “she’s growed wonderful. Lord bless us! she’s a bit changed, she is, sin’ that night when you found her down on the shore. Why, her own friends wouldn’t know her!” Mr. Monk started and frowned. “Her friends?” he said; “what friends?” “Why, them as owns her,” continued William Jones; “if they wasn’t all drownded in the ship what she came ashore from, they must be somewheer. Mayhap some day they’ll find her, and reward me for bringin’ her up a good gal,--that’s what I allus tell her.” “So that’s what you always tell her, do you?” returned Monk grimly. “Then you’re a fool for your pains. The girl’s got no friends--haven’t I told you that before?” “Certainly you have, Mr. Monk,” returned William Jones meekly; “but look ye now, I think----” “You’ve no right to think,” thundered Monk; “you’re not paid for thinking; you’re paid for keeping the girl, and what more do you want?--Matt,” he continued in a softer tone, “come to me.” But Matt didn’t hear--or, at any rate, did not heed; for she made no movement. Then Monk, gazing intently at her, gave vent to the same remark as William Jones had done a few hours before. “Where have you been to-day,” he said, “to have on that frock?” Again Matt hung her head and was silent. Monk repeated his question; and seeing that he was determined to have an answer, she threw up her head defiantly and said, with a tone of pride in her voice-- “I put it on to be took!” “To be took?” repeated Monk. “Yes,” returned Matt; “to have my likeness took. There be a painter chap here that lives in a cart; he’s took it.” It was curious to note the changes in Mr. Monk’s face: at first he tried to appear amiable; then his face gradually darkened into a look of angry suspicion.