She looked perfect that afternoon and he yearned to begin
painting her; but his scheme of action demanded time for its perfect
fulfillment and ultimate success. He let the little timorous chatterbox
talk. Her voice was soft and musical as the cooing of a wood-dove, and the
sweet full notes chimed in striking contrast to her uncouth speech. But
Joan's diction gave pleasure to the listener. It had freedom and wildness,
and was almost wholly innocent of any petrifying educational influences.
Joan, for her part, felt at ease. The man was so polite and so humble. He
thanked her for her information so gratefully. Moreover, he evidently cared
so little about her or her looks. She felt perfectly safe, for it was easy
to see that he thought more of the gorse than anything.
"My faither's agin such things an' sayin's," she babbled on, "but I dunnaw.
They seems truth to me, an' to many as is wiser than what I be. My mother
b'lieved in 'em, an' Joe did, till faither turned en away from 'em. But
when us plighted troth, I made en jine hands wi' me under a livin' spring
o' water, though he said 'twas heathenish. Awnly, somehow, I knawed 'twas a
proper thing to do."
"I should like to hear more about these old customs some day," he said, as
though Joan and he were to meet often in the future, "and I should be
obliged to you for telling me about them, because I always delight in such
matters.
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