“Mr. Charles! She’s come, sor!” “Who the deuce has come?” cried Brinkley. “The _lady_, your honour, to have her picture taken. Will I show her into the parlour?” But as he spoke Matt pushed him aside and entered. She wore her best clothes, but looked a little pale and anxious, Brinkley thought, as he greeted her with a familiar nod. “So you’ve come at last? Tim, get out, you rascal. I thought you had given me up.” He assumed a coldness, though he felt it not, for he had made up his mind not to “encourage” the young person. “I couldn’t come before--they wouldn’t let me. But last night William Jones he didn’t come home, and I broke open the box and took out my clothes, and ran straight off here.” Her face fell as she proceeded, for she could not fail to notice the coolness of the young man’s greeting. “Well, since you _have_ come, we’ll get to work,” said Brinkley. “It’s chilly and damp outside, so we’ll remain here in shelter.” Matt took off her hat, and then proceeded to divest herself of her coarse jacket, revealing for the first time the low-necked silk dress beneath. Meantime the young man placed the sketch in position. Turning presently, he beheld Matt’s transformation. Old and shabby as the dress was, torn here and there, and revealing beneath glimpses of coarse stockings and clumsy boots, it became her wonderfully. As a result of much polishing with soap and water her face shone again, and her arms and neck were white as snow. Thus attired, Matt looked no longer a long shambling girl, but a tall, bright, resplendent, young lady. It was no use. Brinkley could not conceal his admiration. Matt’s arm alone was enough to make a painter wild with delight. “Why, Matt, you look positively magnificent. I had no idea you were so pretty.” The girl blushed with pleasure. ***** The young man worked away for a good hour and a half, at the end of which time he put the finishing touch to the sketch. “_Finis coronat opus!_” he cried. “Look, Matt!” Matt examined the picture with unconcealed delight. It was herself, a little idealized, but quite characteristic, and altogether charming. “May I take it home?” she asked eagerly. “I’ll get you to leave it a few days longer. I must get a frame for it, Matt, and then you shall have it all complete. Now, let me look at you again,” he said, taking her by both hands and looking up at her sunny face. “Are you pleased? Will you take care of the picture for the painter’s sake?” Matt’s answer was embarrassing. She quietly sat down on his knee, and gave him a smacking kiss. “Matt! Matt!” he cried. “You mustn’t!” But she put her warm arm round his neck, and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “I should like to have pretty dresses and gold bracelets and things, and to go away from William Jones and to stay with _you_.” “My dear,” said Brinkley, laughing, “you couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.” “Why not?” asked Matt simply.