Not far from the spot where William Jones had landed, and removed some little distance from the deserted village with its desolate main street and roofless habitations, there stood a low one-storied cottage, quite as black and forbidding-looking as any of the abandoned dwellings in its vicinity. It was built of stone, and roofed with slate, but the doorway was composed of old ship’s timber, and the one small window it contained had originally formed the window of a ship’s cabin. Over the door was placed, like a sign, the wooden figure-head of a young woman, naked to the waist, holding a mirror in her hand, and regarding herself with remarkable complacency, despite the fact that accident had deprived her of a nose and one eye, and that the beautiful red complexion and jet black hair she had once possessed had been entirely washed away by the action of the elements, leaving her all over of a leprous pallor. The rest of the building, as I have suggested, was of sinister blackness, though here and there it was sprinkled with wet sea sand. Sand, too, lay on every side, covered a small patch, originally meant for a garden, and drifted thickly up to the very door.

To this cottage William Jones ran with his treasure trove, and, entering in without ceremony, found himself in almost total darkness—for the light which crept through the blackened panes of the small windows was only just sufficient to make darkness visible. But this worthy seaside character, having, in addition to a cat’s predatory instincts, something of a cat’s power of vision, clearly discerned everything in the chamber he just entered—a rude stone-paved kitchen, with an open fireplace, and no grate, black rafters overhead, from which were hung sundry lean pieces of bacon, a couple of wooden chairs, a table, and in one corner a sort of bed in the wall, where a human figure was reposing. Setting down the trunk on the floor, he marched right over to the bed, and unceremoniously shook the individual lying upon it, whom he discovered to be snoring and muttering in a heavy sleep. Finding that he did not wake with shaking, William Jones bent down and cried lustily in his ear—

“Wreck! wreck ashore!”

The effect was instantaneous. The figure rose up in bed, disclosing the head and shoulders of a very old man, who wore a red cotton nightcap, and whose hair and beard were as white as snow.

“Eh? Wheer? Wheer?” he cried in a shrill treble, looking vacantly around him.

“Wake up, old ’un!” said William, seizing him, and shaking him again. “It’s me, William Jones.”

“William? Is it my son William?” returned the old man, peering out into the darkness.

“Yes, father. Look ye now, you was a-talking again in your sleep, you was. A good thing no one heerd you but your son William. Some o’ these days you’ll be letting summat out, you will, if you go on like this.”

The old man shook his head feebly, then clasping his hands together in a kind of rapture, he looked at his son, and said—

“Yes, William, I was a-dreaming. Oh, it was such a heavingly dream! I was a-standing on the shore, William, and it was a-blowing hard from the east, and all at once I see a ship as big as an Indiaman, come in wi’ all sail set, and go ashore; and I looked round, William dear, and there was no one nigh but you and me; and when she broke up, I see gold and silver and jewels come washing ashore just like floating weeds, and the drownded, every one of ’em, had rings on their fingers, and gold watches and cheens, and more’n that, that their hands was full of shining gold; and one on ’em—a lady, William—had a bright dimond ring, as big as a walnut; but when I tried to pull it off, it wouldn’t come—and just as I pulled out my leetle knife to cut the finger off, and put it in my pocket, you shook me, William, and woke me up. Oh! it was a heavingly dream!”

William Jones had listened with ill-disguised interest to the early part of this speech, but on its conclusion, he gave another grunt of undissembled disgust.

“Well, you’re awake now, old ’un, so jump up. I’ve brought summat home. Look sharp, and get a light.”

Thereupon the old man, who was fully dressed, in a pair of old woollen trousers and a guernsey, slipped from the bed, and began fumbling about the room. He soon found what he wanted—a box of matches and a rude home-made candle, fashioned of a long, coarse reed dipped in sheep’s tallow, but owing to the fact that he was exceedingly feeble and tremulous, he was so long in lighting up that his gentle son grew impatient.

“Here, give ’un to me!” said William. “You’re wasting them matches just as if they cost nowt. A precious father you are, and no mistake.”

The candle being lit and burning with a feeble flame, he informed the old man of what he had found. In a moment the latter was down on his knees, opening the box, and greedily examining its contents. But William pushed him impatiently away, and closed the lid with a bang.

“Theer, enough o’ that, old ’un! You hold the light while I carry the box in and put it away.”

“All right, William dear; all right,” returned the old man, obeying gleefully. “I know’d we should have luck, by that beautiful dream.”

The two men—one holding the light and the other carrying the trunk—passed through a door at the back of the kitchen and entered an inner chamber. This chamber, too, contained a window, which was so blocked up however by lumber of all kinds that little or no daylight entered. Piled up in great confusion were old sacks, some partly full, some empty, coils of rope, broken oars, broken fragments of ships’ planks, rotten and barnacled, a small boat’s rudder, dirty sails, several oilskin coats, bits of iron ballast, and other flotsam and jetsam; so that the chamber had a salt and fish-like smell, suggesting the hold of some vessel. But in one corner of the room was a small wooden bed, with a mattrass and coarse bed-clothing, and hanging on a nail close to it was certain feminine attire which the owner of the caravan would have recognized as the garb worn by Matt on the morning of her first appearance.

Placing the box down, William Jones carefully covered it with a portion of an old sail.

“It’s summat, but it ain’t much,” he muttered discontentedly. “Lucky them coastguards didn’t see me come ashore. If they did, though, it wouldn’t signify; for what’s floating on the sea belongs to him as finds it.”

A sound startled him as he spoke, and looking round suspiciously he saw Matt entering the room, loaded with broken wood. But she was not alone; standing behind her in the shadow was a man—none other, indeed, than Monk of Monkshurst.

While Matt entered the room to throw down her load of wood Monk stood in the doorway. His quick eye had noted the movements of father and son.

“More plunder, William Jones?” he asked grimly.

In a moment William Jones was transformed. The keen expression of his face changed to one of mingled stupidity and sadness; he began to whine.

“More plunder, Mr. Monk?” he said; “no, no; the days for finding that is gone. Matt and me has been on the shore foraging for a bit o’ firewood,—that be all. Put it down, Matt; put it down.”

Matt did as she was told: opening her arms, she threw her load into a corner of the room; then William Jones hurried the whole party back into the kitchen.

The men seated themselves on benches; but Matt moved about the room to get a light. The light as well as everything else was a living illustration of the meanness ol William Jones. It consisted, not of a candle, but of a long rush, which had been gathered from the marshes by Matt, and afterwards dried and dipped in grease by William Jones. Matt lit it, and fixed it in a little iron niche which was evidently made for the purpose and which was attached to a table near the hearth. When the work was finished she threw off her hat and jacket, retired to the further end of the hearth, and sat down on the floor.

During the whole of this time Mr. Monk had been watching her gloomily; and he had been watched in his turn by William Jones. At last the latter spoke.

“Matt’s growed,” said he; “she’s growed wonderful. Lord bless us! she’s a bit changed, she is, sin’ that night when you found her down on the shore. Why, her own friends wouldn’t know her!”

Mr. Monk started and frowned.

“Her friends?” he said; “what friends?”

“Why, them as owns her,” continued William Jones; “if they wasn’t all drownded in the ship what she came ashore from, they must be somewheer. Mayhap some day they’ll find her, and reward me for bringin’ her up a good gal,—that’s what I allus tell her.”

“So that’s what you always tell her, do you?” returned Monk grimly. “Then you’re a fool for your pains. The girl’s got no friends—haven’t I told you that before?”

“Certainly you have, Mr. Monk,” returned William Jones meekly; “but look ye now, I think——”

“You’ve no right to think,” thundered Monk; “you’re not paid for thinking; you’re paid for keeping the girl, and what more do you want?—Matt,” he continued in a softer tone, “come to me.”

But Matt didn’t hear—or, at any rate, did not heed; for she made no movement. Then Monk, gazing intently at her, gave vent to the same remark as William Jones had done a few hours before.

“Where have you been to-day,” he said, “to have on that frock?”

Again Matt hung her head and was silent. Monk repeated his question; and seeing that he was determined to have an answer, she threw up her head defiantly and said, with a tone of pride in her voice—

“I put it on to be took!”

“To be took?” repeated Monk.

“Yes,” returned Matt; “to have my likeness took. There be a painter chap here that lives in a cart; he’s took it.”

It was curious to note the changes in Mr. Monk’s face: at first he tried to appear amiable; then his face gradually darkened into a look of angry suspicion.

Matt never once withdrew her eyes from him—his very presence seemed to rouse all that was bad in her—and she glared at him through her tangled locks in much the same manner that a shaggy terrier puppy might gaze at a bull which it would fain attack, but feared on account of its superior strength.

“Matt,” said Mr. Monk again, “come here.”

This time she obeyed; she rose slowly from her seat and went reluctantly to his side.

“Matt, look me in the face,” he said; “do you know who this painter is?”

Matt shook her head.

“How many times have you seen him?”

“Twice.”

“And what has he said to you?”

“A lot o’ things.”

“Tell me one thing.”

“He asked me who my mother was, and I told him I hadn’t got none.”

Mr. Monk’s face once more grew black as night.

“So,” he said, “poking and prying and asking questions. I thought as much. He’s a scoundrelly vagabond!”

“No, he ain’t,” said Matt bluntly.

“Matt, my girl,” said Mr. Monk, taking no notice of her interruption, “I want you to promise me something.”

“What is it?”

“Not to go near that painter again!” Matt shook her head.

“Shan’t promise,” she said, “’cause I shall go. My likeness ain’t took yet—he takes a time, he does. I’m going to put them things on to-morrow and be took again.”

For a moment the light in his eyes looked dangerous, then he smiled and patted her cheek, at which caress she shrank away. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Matt. “I don’t like to be pulled about, that’s all.”

“You mean you don’t like me?”

“Don’t know. That’s telling.”

“And yet you’ve no cause to hate me, Matt, for I’ve been a good friend to you—and always shall, because I like you, Matt. Do you understand? I like you.”

So anxious did he seem to impress this upon her, that he put his arm around her waist, drew her towards him, and kissed her on the cheek, a ceremony he had never performed before. But Matt seemed by no means to appreciate the honour; as his lips touched her cheeks she shivered; and when he released her she began rubbing at the place as if to wipe the touch away.

If Mr. Monk noticed this action on the part of the girl he deemed it prudent to take no notice of it. He said a few more pleasant things to Matt, and again patted her cheek affectionately, then he left the cottage, taking William Jones with him. Ten minutes later William Jones returned alone.

“Where’s he?” asked Matt.

“Meanin’ Mr. Monk, Matt—he be gone!” said William Jones.

“Gone for good?” demanded Matt, impatiently.

“No; he ain’t, Matt. He’ll be down here to-morrow, he will; and you’d best be at home!”

Matt said nothing this time; she only turned away sullenly and shrugged her shoulders.

“Matt,” said William Jones, presently.

“Well?”

“Mr. Monk seems uncommon fond of you, he do.”

Matt reflected for a moment, then she replied—

“I wonder what he’s fond o’ me for, William Jones?”

“Well, I dunno—‘cause he is, I suppose,” returned William Jones, having no more logical answer at his command.

“‘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.