The artist put down his palette and
walked over to Joan.
"My dear, my dear," he said, "d'you know what's making you so unhappy?"
She sobbed on and did not answer.
"I can tell you, I think. You don't quite know whether to believe me or
not, Joan. That is very natural. Why should you believe me? And yet if you
knew--"
She sat up, swallowed some of her tears, and smudged her face with her
knuckles. He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to
her. It was cool and pleasant, and she went on crying a while, but tears
which were comforting and different to the first stinging drops bred from a
sudden, forlorn survey of life. He talked on, and his voice soothed her. He
kept his distance, and presently, as her ruffled spirit grew calmer, his
remarks assumed a brighter note.
"Has my poor little Lady of the Gorse forgiven me at last? She won't punish
me any more, I know, and it is a very terrible punishment to see tears in
her eyes."
Then she found her tongue again and words to answer him, together with
fluttering sighs that told the tears were ended.
"I dunnaw why for I cried, Mr. Jan, but I seemed 'mazed like. I'm a stupid
fule of a maid, I reckon, an' I s'pose 'tis auld-fashioned notions as I've
got 'bout what be right an' wrong. But, coorse, you knaws better'n what I
can; an' you'd do me no hurt 'cause you loves me--you've said it;
an'--an'--I love 'e tu, Mister Jan, I 'sure 'e--better'n anything in all
the world.
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