"
"Of course you must," admitted Barren, working steadily the while.
"He'm a dear sawl, an' I likes en better'n anybody in the world, I think,
'cept faither. But he's easier to please than faither, an' so humble as a
beggar-man. An' I wants to make some cakes for en against tea-time, 'cause
when he comes, he bides till candle-lighting or later."
Presently the artist bid her rest for a short while, and her thoughts
reverted to him and the picture.
"I hope as you'm feelin' strong an' no worser, Mister Jan," she said
timidly.
He was puzzled for a moment, then recollected that he had mentioned his
health to her.
"Thank you very much for asking, Joan. It was good and thoughtful. I am no
worse--rather better if anything, now I come to think about it. Your
Cornish air is kind to me, and when the sun shines I am happy."
"How be the picksher farin'?"
"I get on well, I think."
"'Tis cruel clever of 'e, Mister Jan. An' you'll paint me wi' the fuzz all
around?"
"That is what I hope to do; a harmony in brown and gold."
"You'll get my likeness tu, I s'pose, same as the photograph man done it
last winter to Penzance? Me an' Joe was took side by side, an' folks
reckoned 'twas the moral of us, specially when the gen'leman painted Joe's
hair black an' mine yeller for another shillin' cost."
"It must have been very excellent."
"Iss, 'twas for sartain."
"What did Mr.
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