to painter-man?"

"Oh, fie, Mat! You mustn't talk of a young lady _belonging_ to anybody,
as if she was a piece of furniture, or money in the Three per Cents,
or something of that sort. Confound it man, don't shake me in that way!
You'll pull my arm off. Let me have my laugh, and I'll tell you every
thing."

"Tell it then; and be quick about it."

"Well, first of all, she is not Blyth's daughter--though some
scandal-mongering people have said she is--"

"Nor yet his wife?"

"Nor yet his wife. What a question! He adopted her, as they call it,
years ago, when she was a child. But who she is, or where he picked
her up, or what is her name, Blyth never _has_ told anybody, and never
_will._ She's the dearest, kindest, prettiest little soul that ever
lived; and that's all I know about her. It's a short story, old boy; but
surprisingly romantic--isn't it?"

Mat did not immediately answer. He paid the most breathless attention
to the few words of information which Zack had given him--repeated them
over again to himself--reflected for a moment--then said--

"Why won't the painter-man tell any body who she is?"

"How should I know? It's a whim of his. And, I'll tell you what, here's
a piece of serious advice for you:--If you want to go there again, and
make her acquaintance, don't you ask Blyth who she is, or let him fancy
you want to know. He's touchy on that point--I can't say why; but he is.
Every man has a raw place about him somewhere: that's Blyth's raw place,
and if you hit him on it, you won't get inside of his house again in a
hurry, I can tell you."

Still, Mat's attention fastened greedily on every word--still, his eyes
fixed eagerly on his informant's face--still, he repeated to himself
what Zack was telling him.

"By the bye, I suppose you saw the poor dear little soul is deaf
and dumb," young Thorpe continued. "She's been so from a child. Some
accident; a fall, I believe. But it don't affect her spirits a bit.
She's as happy as the day is long--that's one comfort."

"Deaf and dumb! So like her, it was a'most as awful as seeing the dead
come to life again. She had Mary's turn with her head; Mary's--poor
creature! poor creature!" He whispered those words to himself, under his
breath, his face turned aside, his eyes wandering over the ground at his
feet, with a faint, troubled, vacantly anxious expression.

"Come! come! don't be getting into the dolefuls already," cried Zack,
administering an exhilaratin