At last he tumbled off again, and dreamed that Matt was a young lady of beautiful attire and captivating manners to whom he was “engaged;” and her speech, strange to say, was quite poetical and refined; and they walked together, hand in hand, to a country church on a green hillside, and were just going to enter, when who should appear upon the threshold but Mr. Monk of Monkshurst? But they passed him by, and stood before the altar, where the parson stood in his white robes, and when the parson asked aloud whether any one saw any just cause or impediment why the pair should not be joined in holy matrimony, the same Monk stepped forward with Mephistophelian smile, and cried, “Yes, I do!” On which the young man awoke again in agitation, to find that it was broad daylight, and a fine fresh summer morning. Whom should he find waiting for him when he had dressed himself and stepped from the house on wheels but Matt herself? Yes, there she was, as wild and quaintly attired as ever, quite unlike the ethereal individual of his dreams; but for all that her smile was like sunshine, and her eyes as roguish and friendly as ever. Conscious of his dream he blushed while greeting her with a friendly nod. “Well, Matt? Here again, eh?” he said; adding to himself, “This won’t do at all, my gentleman; if the young person continues to appear daily, the caravan will have to ‘move on.’” Matt had evidently something on her mind. After looking at Brinkley thoughtfully for some few minutes, she exclaimed abruptly-- “William Jones don’t like you neither. No more does William Jones’s father.” “Dear me!” said the young man. “I’m very sorry for that.” “He says--William Jones says--you’re come here prying and spying. Do you?” “My dear Matt,” replied the young man lightly, “I come here as a humble artist, seeking subjects for my surpassing genius to work upon. If it is prying and spying to attempt to penetrate into the beauties of nature--both scenic, animal, and human--I fear I must plead guilty; but otherwise----” She interrupted him with an impatient exclamation, accompanied by a hitch of her pretty shoulders. “Don’t talk like that; for then I know you’re chaffing. Talk serious, and I’ll tell you something.” “All right. I’ll be serious as a parson. Go ahead!” “Mr. Monk of Monkshurst wants to marry me. He said so to William Jones.” The information was delivered with assumed carelessness; but after it was given, Matt watched the effect of it upon the hearer with precocious interest. Brinkley opened his eyes in very natural amazement. “Come, come, Matt; you’re joking.” “No, I ain’t. It’s true.” “But you’re only a child--a very nice child, I admit--but to talk of holy matrimony in such a connection is--excuse my frankness--preposterous. People don’t marry little girls.” But Matt did not consent to this proposition at all. “I ain’t a little girl,” she affirmed with a decisive nod of the head. “I’m sixteen, and I’m growed up.”