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"I've downed Matthew Bent, Joan! Ten fair rounds, then he gived up." "Fight, fight, fight 'tis all you think of," said his parent, while Joan poured congratulations on the conqueror. "'Tweer bound to come arter the football, when he played foul, an' I tawld en so. Now, we'm friends." "Be he bruised same as you?" "A sight worse; he's a braave picksher, I tell 'e!
Meanwhile nothing came of his painting and he was not sorry when she ended the ordeal. "The bwoats be comin' back home along, Mister Jan. I doan't mark faither's yet, but when 'tis wance in sight he'll be to Newlyn sooner'n me. So I'd best be gwaine, though it edn' more than noon, I s'pose. An' my heart's a tidy sight lighter now than 'tweer issterday indeed."
'tweer like sittin' tu near a gert red'ot fire. Her rubbed it in, I tell 'e, same as you rubs salt into a hake. Faither said 'twas braave talk. But you, Joan, what's wrong with 'e, what have you done?" "I ain't done no wrong, Tom, an' you can take my word for't." "Do 'e reckon you'm damned, like what faither sez?" "Never! I doan't care a grain o' wheat what faither sez.
"'The prayer of the righteous man availeth much," answered Gray Michael evasively. "I be come," he added, "to read the Scriptures to 'e." "You all prayed for me, sir?" "Iss, every man, but theer was no mincin' matters, Albert. Us was arskin' for a miserable sinner, a lost sheep awnly just strayed back, an' we put it plain as that was so." "'Tweer mighty kind o' the Luke Gosp'lers, sir."
Here he was faced with a like problem and now invited her to solve it. "I dunnaw. I thot such love never comed to no end, Mister Jan. I thot 'tweer good to wear; but but how do I knaw if you doan't?" "You trust me, Joan?" "Why, who should I trust, if 'tweern't you? I never knawed any person else as set such store 'pon the truth.
Wale, ma'am; but ma father was off times down thar cuttin' peat." "Ah, then ye'll not a kenned farmer Dykes that lived by the Lin-tree Scaur. 'Tweer I that laid him out, poor aad fellow, and a dow man he was when aught went cross wi' him; and he cursed and sweared, twad gar ye dodder to hear him.
"Cruel fashion weather for pilchur fishin' us have had cruel fashion weather. I knawed 'tweer comin', same as Noah knawed 'fore the flood, 'cause the Lard tawld me. 'Forty years long was I grieved wi' this generation. But man tries the patience o' God these days. We'm like the Ruan Vean men: 'doan't knaw an' won't larn." "Iss fay, mister, true 'nough; but tell me 'bout 'e all an' an' my Joan.
"She've lied to me," was his answer; "she've lied oftentimes; she'm false to whatever I did teach her; she've sawld herself she've no more on it no more on it but awnly this: I call 'pon God A'mighty to bear witness she'm no Tregenza never never." "'Tweer her mother in the gal; but doan't 'e say more 'bout that, Michael.
"I've seed en, 'pon the heath. 'Tis butivul an' solemn an' still, all aloan out theer in a croft to itself. I trapsed up-long wan day an' got beside of en an' ate a pasty wi' Joe. But Joe chid me, an' said 'tweer a heathenish thing sticked theer by the Phoenicians, as comed for tin in Solomon's times." "Don't you believe that, Joan.
Chirgwin to make Joan write out a will. "You never knaws," she said. "God keep the gal, but they do die now an' agin. 'Tweer better she wrote about the money 'cordin' to a lawyer's way. And, say, for the Lard's love, not to leave it to Michael. So well light a fire wi' it as that.
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