Matt never once withdrew her eyes from him--his very presence seemed to rouse all that was bad in her--and she glared at him through her tangled locks in much the same manner that a shaggy terrier puppy might gaze at a bull which it would fain attack, but feared on account of its superior strength. “Matt,” said Mr. Monk again, “come here.” This time she obeyed; she rose slowly from her seat and went reluctantly to his side. “Matt, look me in the face,” he said; “do you know who this painter is?” Matt shook her head. “How many times have you seen him?” “Twice.” “And what has he said to you?” “A lot o’ things.” “Tell me one thing.” “He asked me who my mother was, and I told him I hadn’t got none.” Mr. Monk’s face once more grew black as night. “So,” he said, “poking and prying and asking questions. I thought as much. He’s a scoundrelly vagabond!” “No, he ain’t,” said Matt bluntly. “Matt, my girl,” said Mr. Monk, taking no notice of her interruption, “I want you to promise me something.” “What is it?” “Not to go near that painter again!” Matt shook her head. “Shan’t promise,” she said, “’cause I shall go. My likeness ain’t took yet--he takes a time, he does. I’m going to put them things on to-morrow and be took again.” For a moment the light in his eyes looked dangerous, then he smiled and patted her cheek, at which caress she shrank away. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Nothing,” said Matt. “I don’t like to be pulled about, that’s all.” “You mean you don’t like _me?_” “Don’t know. That’s telling.” “And yet you’ve no cause to hate me, Matt, for I’ve been a good friend to you--and always shall, because I like you, Matt. Do you understand? I like you.” So anxious did he seem to impress this upon her, that he put his arm around her waist, drew her towards him, and kissed her on the cheek, a ceremony he had never performed before. But Matt seemed by no means to appreciate the honour; as his lips touched her cheeks she shivered; and when he released her she began rubbing at the place as if to wipe the touch away. If Mr. Monk noticed this action on the part of the girl he deemed it prudent to take no notice of it. He said a few more pleasant things to Matt, and again patted her cheek affectionately, then he left the cottage, taking William Jones with him. Ten minutes later William Jones returned alone. “Where’s _he?_” asked Matt. “Meanin’ Mr. Monk, Matt--he be gone!” said William Jones. “Gone for good?” demanded Matt, impatiently. “No; he ain’t, Matt. He’ll be down here to-morrow, he will; and you’d best be at home!” Matt said nothing this time; she only turned away sullenly and shrugged her shoulders. “Matt,” said William Jones, presently. “Well?” “Mr. Monk seems uncommon fond of you, he do.” Matt reflected for a moment, then she replied-- “I wonder what he’s fond o’ me for, William Jones?” “Well, I dunno--‘cause he is, I suppose,” returned William Jones, having no more logical answer at his command.