"Better not attempt originality," he thought, "for the thing I have done is
scarce capable of original treatment. I suppose the curtain always rings
down on a check--either taken or spurned."
"So you think you can give them all up for poor me, Joan? Your home, your
father, brother, mother--all?"
"I've gived up a sight more'n them, Jan. I've gived 'e what's all to a
maiden. But my folks weern't hard to give up. 'Tis long since they was
ought to me now. I gaws an' comes from the cottage an' sez, all the time,
'this ban't home no more. Mister Jan's home be mine,' I sez to myself. An'
each time as I breaks bread, an' sleeps, an' wakes, an' looks arter
faither's clothes I feels 'tis wan time nigher the last. They'll look back
an' think what a snake 'twas they had 'bout the house, I s'pose. Mother'll
whine an' say, 'Ah! 'er was a bitter weed for sartain,' an' faither'll
thunder till the crocks rattle an' bid none dare foul the air wi' my name
no more. But I be wearyin' of 'e wi' my clackin', Jan, dear heart?"
"Not so, Joan--never think that. I could listen to you till Doomsday. Only
we must act now and talk presently. I know you're tired of the picture, and
you were cross last time we met because I could speak of it; but I must for
a moment more. It cries out to be finished. A few hours' good work and
all's done. The weather steadies now and the glass is rising, so our
sittings may begin in a day or two.
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