Hour after hour passed, and Matt did not come. William Jones began to doze by the fire--then he sank into a heavy sleep. He awoke with a start, and found that it was broad daylight. The fire was out, the rain had ceased to fall, and the morning sun was creeping in at the windows. He looked round, and saw that he was still alone. He went into Matt’s room--it was empty. She had not returned. He was now filled with vague uneasiness. He made up a bit of fire, and was about to issue forth again in search of the truant, when all further trouble was saved him--the door opened, and Matt herself appeared. She seemed almost as much disturbed as William Jones himself. Her face was very pale, her hair wild, her dress in great disorder. She started on seeing him; then, assuming rather a devil-may-care look, she lounged in. “You’re up early, William Jones,” she said. “Yes, I am up early,” he replied gruffly; “’cause why?--’cause I ain’t been to bed. And where have _you_ been--jest you tell me that.” “Why,--I’ve been out, of course!” returned the girl defiantly. “That won’t do, Matt,” returned William Jones. “Come, you’ll jest tell me where you’ve been. You ain’t been out all night for nothing.” The girl gave him a look half of defiance, half of curiosity; then she threw herself down, rather than sat, upon a chair. “I’m tired, I am,” she said; “and hungry, and cold!” “Will you tell me where you’ve been, Matt?” cried William Jones, trembling with suspicious alarm. “‘Course I will, if you keep quiet,” said the girl in answer. “There ain’t much to tell neither. I were away along to Pencroes when the heavy rain came on, then I lay down behind a haystack and fell asleep, and when I woke up it was daylight, and I came home.” William Jones looked at her steadfastly and long; then, as if satisfied, he turned away. About an hour later he left the hut and walked along the shore, straining his eyes seaward. But instead of looking steadfastly at one spot, as his custom was, he paused now and again to gaze uneasily about him. At every sound he started and turned pale. In truth, he was becoming a veritable coward--afraid almost of the sound of his own footsteps on the sands. CHAPTER XIII.--THE CARAVAN DISAPPEARS. Several days passed away, during which William Jones showed a strange and significant affection for his own fireside. He went out a little in the sunlight; but directly night came he locked and barricaded the door as if against thieves, and declined, on any inducement, to cross the threshold. Even had a three-decker gone ashore in the neighbourhood, he would have thought twice before issuing forth into the dreaded darkness.