“‘Yes,’ she answered, nibbling rapidly. ‘I belong to William Jones.’
“‘Oh, to him,’ I said, feeling as familiar with the name as if I had known it all my life. ‘But he’s not your father?’
“She shook her head emphatically.
“‘But of course he’s a relation?’
“Another shake of the head.
“‘But you belong to him?’ I said, considerably puzzled. ‘Where were you born?’
“‘I wasn’t born at all,’ answered Matt. ‘I come ashore.’
“This was what the immortal Dick. Swiveller would have called a ‘staggerer.’ I looked at the girl again, inspecting her curiously from top to toe. Without taking her eyes from mine, she stood on one leg bashfully, and fidgeted with the other foot. She was certainly not bad-looking, though, evidently a very rough diamond. Even the extraordinary head-gear became her well. “‘I know what you are doing there,’ she cried suddenly, pointing to my easel. ‘You, was painting!’
The discovery not being a brilliant one, I took no trouble to confirm it; but Matt thereupon walked over to the canvas, and, stooping down, examined it with undisguised curiosity. Presently she glanced again at me.
“‘I know what this is,’ she cried, pointing. ‘It’s water. And that’s the sky. And that’s trees. And these here’—for a moment she seemed in doubt, but added hastily—‘pigs.’