“‘Tain’t that,” said Matt; “he don’t love me ’cause I’m _me_, William Jones. There’s somethin’ else, and I should just like to know what that somethin’ is, I should.” William Jones looked at her, conscious that there was a new development of sagacity in her character, but was utterly at a loss to understand what that new development meant. CHAPTER VI.--ALSO CONCLUDES WITH A KISS. When Matt awoke the next morning, the first thing she did was to look around for her Sunday clothes, which on retiring to rest she had carefully placed beside her bed. They were gone, and in their place lay the habiliments she was accustomed to wear on her erratic pilgrimages every day. Her face grew cloudy, she hunted all round the chamber, but finding nothing that she sought she was compelled to array herself as she best could. “William Jones,” she said, when she sat with that worthy at a hermit’s breakfast of dry bread and whey, “where’s my Sunday clothes?” William Jones fidgeted a bit, then he said-- “They’re put where you won’t find ’em. Look ye now, Matt, you’d better be doin’ summat more useful than runnin’ about after a painter chap. I was down on the shore this morning, and I seen heaps o’ wood--you’d best get some of it afore night!” Matt gave a snort, but said nothing. A few minutes later her benign protector left the cottage, and a little after he had disappeared Matt issued forth; but instead of beating the shore for firewood, as she had been told to do, she ran across the fields to the painter. She found him already established at his work. The fact was he had been for some time strolling about with his hands in his pockets, and scanning the prospect on every side, for a sight of her. Having got tired of this characteristic occupation, he at length sat down and began to put a few touches to the portrait. Seeing that he was unconscious of her approach, Matt crept up quietly behind him and took a peep at the picture. Her black eyes dilated with pleasure. “Oh, ain’t it beautiful!” she exclaimed. “So you have come at last,” said Brinkley quietly, going on with his painting. She made no movement and no further sound, so he continued-- “Perhaps now you _have_ come you’ll be good enough to step round that I may continue my work. I am longing to refresh my memory with a sight of your face, Matt!” “Well, you can’t,” said Matt; “they’re locked up!” “Eh! what’s locked up--my memory or your face?” It was clear Matt could not appreciate banter. She saw him smile, and guessed that he was laughing at her, and her face grew black and mutinous. She would have slunk off, but his voice stopped her. “Come here, Matt,” he said. “Don’t be silly, child; tell me what’s the matter, and--why, what has become of your resplendent raiment--your gorgeous Sunday clothes?” “Didn’t I tell yer?--they’re locked up.” “Indeed!” “Yes, William Jones done it ’cause _he_ told him. _He_ don’t want me to come here and be took.”