But the other persevered. “I assure you Mr.------, Mr.------ (I have not the pleasure of knowing your name), that I had no desire of offending you; and if I did so, I beg to apologize.” Brinkley looked keenly at the speaker. His words and manner were greatly at variance with his looks,--even with the tone of his voice. Though he smiled and showed his teeth, a dark frown still disfigured his brow, and his mouth twitched nervously as if he were ill at ease. Regarding him thus closely, Brinkley saw that he had been somewhat mistaken as to his age. He was considerably under forty years of age, but his hair was mixed with grey, and his features strongly marked as with the scars of old passions. A handsome man, certainly; an amiable one, certainly not! Yet he had a peculiar air of power and breeding, as of one accustomed to command. Curiosity overcame dislike, and the young man determined to receive Mr. Monk’s overture as amiably as possible. “I dare say it was a mistake,” he said. “Gentlemen don’t usually travel about in caravans.” “You are an artist, I am informed,” returned Monk. “Something of that sort,” was the reply. “I paint a little for pleasure.” “And do you find this neighbourhood suit your purpose?--It is somewhat flat and unpicturesque.” “I rather like it,” answered Brinkley. “It is pretty in summer; it must be splendid in winter, when the storms begin, and the uneventful career of our friend William Jones is varied by the excitement of wrecks.” How Monk’s forehead darkened! But his face smiled still as he said-- “It is not often that shipwrecks occur now, I am glad to say.” “No,” said Brinkley, drily. “They used to be common enough fifteen years ago.” Their eyes met, and the eyes of Monk were full of fierce suspicion. “Why fifteen years ago, especially?” The young man shrugged his shoulders. “I was told only to-day of the loss of one great ship, at that time. Matt told me, the little foundling. You know Matt, of course?” “I know whom you mean. Excuse me, but you seem to be very familiar with her name?” “I suppose I am,” replied the young man. “Matt and I are excellent friends.” Monk did not smile now; all his efforts to do so were ineffectual. With an expression of savage dislike, he looked in Brinkley’s face, and his voice, though his words were still civil, trembled and grew harsh “as scrannel pipes of straw.” “May I ask if you purpose remaining long in the neighbourhood?” “I don’t know,” answered the artist. “My time is my own, and I shall stay as long as the place amuses me.” “If I can assist in making it do so, I shall be happy, sir.” “Thank you.” “Do you care for rabbit shooting? If so, there is some sport to be had among the sand-hills.” “I never shoot anything,” was the reply, “except, I suppose, ‘folly as it flies;’ though with what species of firearm that interesting sport is pursued,” he added, as if to himself, “I haven’t the slightest idea!”