Let me make one last, grand struggle.
Then, if I fail, I shall fling the picture over this cliff, and my palette
and brushes after it. So we will keep our secret a little longer. Then,
when the picture is made or marred, away we'll go, and by the time they
miss you from your old home you will be half way to your new one."
But she did not heed the latter part of his remarks, for her thoughts were
occupied with what had gone before.
"'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. 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. Theer'll never be no tears nor trouble in her eyes; she'll bring 'e a
name, an' bide purty an'--an' I hates the picksher now, so I do."
Barron listened with considerable interest to these remarks.
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