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"Axing pardon for taking up any of your time, sir," he began, "but theer'm a matter concerning a party in your business as painted a maiden here, by name o' Joan Tregenza. She weern't nobody awnly a fisherman's darter, but the picksher was said to be done in these paarts, an' I thot, maybe, you'd knaw who drawed it."
'Tis 'cause you caan't paint your picksher, I reckon." He sighed and took her hand in his. "Don't think that, my Joan. Once I cared nothing for you, everything for my picture; now I care nothing for my picture, everything for you. And the better I love you, the worse I paint you. That's funny, isn't it?" "Iss, 'tis coorious. But I'm sure you do draw me a mighty sight finer than I be.
"No, not 'mister' just 'Jan," he answered, adopting her pronunciation. "I don't call you 'Miss' Joan." She looked at once uncomfortable and pleased. "We must be friends," the man continued calmly, "now you have promised to let me put you here among the gorse bushes." "Sure, I dunnaw 'bout the picksher, Mister Jan." "Well, you would be doing me a great service.
"'Pears, when all's said, you'd sooner have the picksher Joan than the real wan. 'Tis all the picksher an' the picksher an' the picksher." This was not less than the truth, but of course he blamed her for so speaking, and said her words hurt him. "'Tis this way," she said, "I've larned so much since I knawed 'e, an' I be like as if I was woke from a sleep.
From what you tell me, your father might not like you to have this trifle, and I should be very sorry to annoy him." "I waddun' gwaine to show en," she confessed. "I shall store the picksher away as you sez." "You are wise. Now look here, doesn't this promise to be a big affair?
Things is all differ'nt now; but 'tis awnly my gert love for 'e as makes me 'feared sometimes 'cause life's too butivul to last. An' the picksher frights me more'n fancy, 'cause, seemin'ly, theer's two Joans, an' the picksher Joan's purtier than me. 'Er's me, but better'n me. 'Er's allus bright an' bonny; 'er's never crossed an' wisht; 'er 'olds 'er tongue an' doan't talk countrified same as me.
How far's such as her gwaine in life without some person else to lean upon?" "If the ivy cannot find a tree it creeps along the ground, Chrissy." "Ess, it do; or else falls headlong awver the first bank it comes to. Phoebe's so helpless a maiden as ever made a picksher. I mind her at school in the days when we was childer together.
I'm not strong, you know, and I daresay this is the last picture I shall ever paint." "You ed'n strong, sir?" "Not at all." She was silent, and a great sympathy rose in her girl's heart, for frail health always made her sad. "You don't judge 'tis wrong then for a maiden to be painted in a picksher?" "Certainly not, Joan.
You see, Joan was away up Drift wi' the Chirgwins, an' theer she was took when they found her arter the drownin'. She never knawed the true name of en herself, poor dear. But 'twas a paintin' man a artist. It comed out arter as he'd made a picksher of her, an' promised to marry her, an' stawl all she'd got to give 'pon the strength of the lie. Then theer was a letter " "From the man?" Mrs.
"Pharaoh's a soft-'earted twoad to this wan," he declared gloomily. "It do beat me to picksher sich a man. I've piped to en hot an' strong, as Joan knaws, but he ban't gwaine to dance 'tall seemin'ly. Poor sawl! When the hand o' the Lard do fall, God send 'twon't crush en all in all. 'Saved' him dear, dear!" "The likes of Tregenza be saved 'pon St.
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