People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 February 1894 — Untitled [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

logically, the maimer in which X eooopied myself from dawn to sunset. “6 a. m.—Wake and see that Tim has already disappeared and folded up hie hammock. Observe the morning sun looking in with a fresh, cheery countenance at the window. Turn over again with a yawn, and go to sleep for another five minutes. “7:15 a. m.—Wake again, and discover, by looking at my watch, that, instead of five minutes, I have slept an hour and a quarter. Spring up at once and slip on shirt and trousers; then pass out, barefooted, into the open air. No sign of Tim, but a fire is lighted close to the caravan, which shadows it from the rays of the morning sun. Stroll down to the lake and, throwing off what garments I wear, prepare for a bath. Cannot get out for a swim on account of the reeds. The bath over, return and finish my toilet in the caravan. “8 a. m.—Tim has reappeared. He has been right down to the seashore, a walk of about two miles and a half. He informs me to my disgust that there is some sort of a human settlement a life-boat station. He has brought back in his baglet, as specimens of the local products, a dozen newlaid eggs, some milk and a loaf of bread. The last, I observe, is in a fossil state. I ask who sold it him. He answers, William Jones. “8:80 a. m.—We breakfast splendidly. Even the fossil loaf yields sustenance, after it is cut up and dissolved in hot tea. Between whiles Tim informs me that the settlement down yonder is, in his opinion, a poor sort of place. There are several whitewashed cottages and a large, roofless house, for all the world like a church. Devil the cow or pig did he see at all, barrin’ a few hens. Any boats, I ask? Yes, one, with the bottom knocked out, belonging to William Jones. “Tim has got this name so pat that ny curiosity begins to be aroused. ‘Who the deuce is William Jones?’ ‘Sure, thin,’ says Tim, ‘he’s the man that lives down beyant, by the sea.’ I demand, somewhat irritably, if the place contains only one inhabitant? Devil another did Tim see, h 6 explains —barrin’ William Jones. “9:80 a. m.—Start painting in the open air, under the shade of a large white cotton umbrella. Paint on till 1 p. m. “1 p. m. —Take a long walk among the sand hills, avoiding the settlement beyond the lake. Don’t want to meet any of the aboriginals, more particularly William Jones. Walking here is like running up and down Atlantic billows, assuming said billows to be solid; now I am lost in the trough of the sand, now I re-emerge on the crest of the solid wave. Amusing, but fatiguing. Suddenly a hare starts from under my feet and goes leisurely away. I remember an old amusement of mine in the west of Ireland, and I track Puss by her footprints—now clearly and beautifully printed in the soft sand of the hollows, now more faintly marked on the harder sides of the ridges. The sun blazes down* the refraction of the heat from the sand is overpowering, the air is quivering, sparkling and pulsating, as if full of innumerable sand crystals. A horrible croak from overhead startles me, and, looking up, I see an enormous raven, wheeling along in circles and searching the ground for mice or other prey. “Looking at my watch, I find I have been toiling in tlie sandy wilderness for quite two hours. Time to get back and dine. Climb the nearest hillock, and look round to dispover where I am. Can see nothing but the sandy billows on every side, and am entirely at a loss which way to go. At last, after half an hour’s blind wandering, stumble by accident on the road by the lakeside and see the caravan in the distance. “4 p. m.—Dinner, Boiled potatoes, boiled eggs, fried bacon. Tim’s cooking is primitive, but I could devour anything—even William Jones’ fossil bread. I asked if any human being has visited the camp. ‘Sorra one,’ Tim says, looking rather disappointed. He has got to feel himself a public character, and misses the homage of the vulgar. “Paint again till six p. m. “A beautiful sunset. The sand hills grow rosy in the light, the lake deep* ens from crimson to purple, the moon comes out like a silver sickle over the sandy sea. A thought seizes me as the shadows increase. Now is the time to entice the pink trout from their depths in the lake. I get out my fishing rod and line, and, stretching two or three flies which seem suitable, prepare foi* action. My rod is only a small, single-handed one, and is difficult to cast beyond the sedges, but the fish are rising thickly out in the tranquil pools, and, determined not to be beaten, I wade in to the knees. Half a dozen trout, each about the size of a small herring, reward my enterprize. When I have captured them, the moon ! is high up above the sand-hills, and it ! is quite dark. “Such is the chronicle of the past j day. By the light of my lamp inside ] the caravan I have written it down. ! It has been all very tranquil and un- | eventful, but very delightful, and a | day to be marked with a white stone, I in one respect—that from dawn to sunj set I have not set eyes on a human being, except my servant. “Stop, though! lam wrong. Just as j I was returning from my piscatorial ! excursion to the lake, I saw, passing j along the road in the direction of the j sea, a certain solitary horseman, who ! accosted me not too civilly on the roadI side the night before last. He scowled j at me in passing, and, of course, recog- | nized me by the aid of the caravan. ! His name is Monk, of Monkshurst, and ; he seems to be pretty well monarch of | all he surveys. I have an impression : that Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst, and : myself are destined to be better, or ; worse, acquainted.’ CHAPTER 111. ! MATT SUAfcS TIER FIRST APPEARANCE. | “Eureka! I have had an adventure at last; and yet, after all, what am I talking about? It is no adventure at all, but only a commonplace incident. This in how it happened*

*T wait seated this morning before my easel, out in open air, painting busily, when I thought I heard a movement behind me. “I should have premised, by the way, that Tim had gone off on another excursion into the Jones territory, on the quest for more eggs and milk. “I glanced over my shoulder and saw, peering round the corner of my white sun-shade a pair of large, eager eyes—fixed not upon me, but upon the canvas I was painting. in the least surprised, I thought to myself: ‘At last! The caravan has exercised its spell upon the district, and the usual audience is beginning to gather.’ So I went tranquilly on with my work and paid no more attention. “Presently, however, fatigued with my work, I indulged in a great yawn, and rose to stretch myself. I then perceived that my audience was more select than numerous, consisting of only one individual—a young person in a Welsh chimney-pot hat. Closer observation showed me that said hat was set on a bead of closely-cropped, curly black hair, beneath which there shone a brown, boyish face freckled with sun and wind, a pair of bright, black eyes and a laughing mouth, with two rows of the whitest of teeth. But the face, though boyish, did not belong to a boy. The young person was dressed in an old cotton gown, had a colored woolen shawl or scarf thrown over the shoulder;!, and wore

thick woolen stockings and rough shoes, the latter many sizes too large. The gown was too short for the wearer, who had evidently outgrown it; it reached only just below the knee, and, when the young person moved, one caught a glimpse of something very much resembling a delapidated garter. “The young person’s smile was so bright and good humored that I found myself answering it with a friendly nod. “ ‘How are you?’ I said, gallantly. ‘I hope you’re quite well.’ “She nodded in reply, and, stooping down, plucked a long blade of grass which she placed in her mouth and began to nibble—bashfully, I thought. “ ‘May I ask you where you came from?’ I said. ‘I mean, where do you live?’ “Without speaking, she stretched out her arm and pointed across the lake in the direction of the sea. I could not help noticing then, as an artist, that the sleeve of her gown was loose and torn, and that her arm was round and well formed, and her hand, though rough and sunburnt, quite genteelly small. “ ‘lf it is not inquisitive, may I ask your name?’ “ ‘Matt,’ was the reply. “ ‘ls that all? What is your other name?’ “ ‘l’ve got no other name. I’m Matt, I am.’ “ ‘lndeed! Do your parents live here?’ “ ‘Got no parents,’ was the reply. “ ‘Your relations, then. You belong to some one, I suppose?’ “ ‘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 headgear became her well. “ ‘I know what you was 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. ‘lt’s water. And that’s the sky. And that’s trees. And these litre’ —for a moment she seemed in doubt, but added, hastily—‘pigs.’ “Now, as the subject represented a flock of sheep huddling together close to a pond on a rainy common, this suggestion was not over complimentary ito my artistic skill. I was on the point of correcting my astute critic, when she added, after a moment’s further inspection “ ‘No, they’re sheep. Look ye now, I know! They’re sheep.’ “ ‘Pray don’t touch the paint,’ I suggested, approaching her in some alarm. ‘lt is wet and comes off.’ “She drew back cautiously; and then as a preliminary to further conversation sat down on the grass, giving me further occasion to remark her length and shapeliness of limb. There was a free-and-easiness, not tc say boldness, about tor manner, tampered though it

was with gnsta at hawhfnhaea ■, wfciat began to amuse me. ‘“Can you paint faces?’ she asked, dubiously. "• „ “I replied that I could even aspire te ' that accomplishment, by which I on derstood her to mean portrait-paint ing, if need were. She gave a quiet nod of satisfaction. “ ‘There was a painter chap who j came to Abcrglyn last summer, and be painted William Jones.’ “‘lndeed?’ I said, with an assumption of friendly interest. “ ‘Yes. I wanted him to paint me, but he wouldn’t. He painted William Jones’father, though, along o’William Jones.’ “This with an air of unmistakable disgust and recrimination. I looked at the girl more observantly. It had never occurred to me tiU that moment | that she would make a capital picture —just the sort of ‘study’ which would ! fetch a fair price in the market. I adopted her free-and-easy manner, | which was contagious, and sat down 1 i on the grass opposite to her. “ ‘l’ll teU you what it is, Matt,’ I | said, familiarly, ‘l’ll paint you, though the other painter chap won’t.’ “ ‘You will?’ she cried, blushing v?ith I delight. “ ‘Certainly; and a very nice portrait 1 I think you’ll make. Be good enough j to take off your hat, that I may have i a better look at you.’ | “She obeyed me at oneo and threw j the clumsy thing down on the grass | ' beside her. Then I saw that her head j i was covered with short black curls, j i clinging round a bold white brow un- i 1 freckled by the sun. She glanced at ! me sidelong, laughing, and showing her white teeth. Whatever her age ! was, she was quite old enough to be a ' coquette. “Promptly as possible I put the question: ‘You have not told mo how old you are?’ “ ‘Fifteen,’ she replied, without hesitation. N “‘I should have taken you to be at least a year older.' "She shook her head. “ ‘lt’s fifteen year come Whitsuntide,’ she explained, ‘since J. come ashore.’ ■ “Although I was not a little curious to know what this ‘coming ashore' meant, I felt that all my conversation had been categorical to monotony, and I determined, therefore, to reserve further inquiry until another occasion. I Observing that my new friend was now looking at the caravan with considerable interest, I asked her if she i knew what it was, and if she had ever seen anything liko it before. She replied in the negative, though I think she had a tolerably good guess as to the caravan’s uses. I thought this • good opportunity to show my natural politeness. Would she like to look at the interior? She said she would, i though without exhibiting much en- , thusiasm. [TO BE CONTINUED.]

“MAY I ASK WHERE YOU CAME FROM?”