Her geographical knowledge was scanty. Truro
and Plymouth, in her belief, lay somewhere upon the edge of the world; and
she scarcely imagined that London could be much more remote.
But no letter awaited her, and life grew to be terribly empty. For a week
she struggled with herself to keep from the post-office, and then, nothing
doubting that her patience would now be well rewarded, Joan marched off
with confidence for the treasure. But only a greater disappointment than
the last resulted; and she went home very sorrowful, building up
explanations of the silence, finding excuses for "Mister Jan." The prefix
to his name, which had dropped during their latter intimacy, returned to
her mind now the man was gone: as "Mister Jan" it was that she thought
about him and prayed for him.
The days passed quickly, and when a fortnight stood between herself and the
last glimpse of her lover, Joan began to grow very anxious. She wept
through long nights now, and her father, finding the girl changed, guessed
she had a secret and told his wife to find it out. But it was some time
before Thomasin made any discovery, for Joan lied stoutly by day and prayed
to God to pardon by night. She strove hard to follow the teaching of the
artist, to find joy in flowers and leaves, in the spring music of birds, in
the color of the sea. But now she dimly guessed that it was love of him
which went so far to make all things beautiful, that it was the magic and
wisdom of his words which had gilded the world with gold and thrown new
light upon the old familiar objects of life.
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