Her face grew cloudy, she hunted all round the chamber, but finding nothing that she sought she was compelled to array herself as she best could.
“William Jones,” she said, when she sat with that worthy at a hermit’s breakfast of dry bread and whey, “where’s my Sunday clothes?”
William Jones fidgeted a bit, then he said—
“They’re put where you won’t find ’em. Look ye now, Matt, you’d better be doin’ summat more useful than runnin’ about after a painter chap. I was down on the shore this morning, and I seen heaps o’ wood—you’d best get some of it afore night!”
Matt gave a snort, but said nothing. A few minutes later her benign protector left the cottage, and a little after he had disappeared Matt issued forth; but instead of beating the shore for firewood, as she had been told to do, she ran across the fields to the painter.
She found him already established at his work. The fact was he had been for some time strolling about with his hands in his pockets, and scanning the prospect on every side, for a sight of her. Having got tired of this characteristic occupation, he at length sat down and began to put a few touches to the portrait. Seeing that he was unconscious of her approach, Matt crept up quietly behind him and took a peep at the picture.
Her black eyes dilated with pleasure.
“Oh, ain’t it beautiful!” she exclaimed.
“So you have come at last,” said Brinkley quietly, going on with his painting.
She made no movement and no further sound, so he continued—