You'm
the fust as have got to my heart since he went; an' he'd bless 'e if he
knawed."
"Come along with me, Joan," answered Uncle Chirgwin, straightening himself
and applying his big handkerchief to her face. "God send the man'll be
'longside 'e right soon, as you sez. Till he do come, you shaan't leave me
no more. Drift's home for you while you'm pleased to bide theer. An' I'll
see your faither presently, though I wish 'twas any other man."
"I knawed you was all us the same; I knawed you'd take me in. An' Mister
Jan shall knaw. An' he'll love you for't when he do."
"Come an' see me put the ewes an' lambs in the croft; then us'll gaw to
dinner, an' I'll hear you tell me all 'bout en."
He tried hard to put a hopeful face upon the position and, himself as
simple as a child, presently found Joan's story not hopeless at all. He
seemed indeed to catch some of her spirit as she proceeded and painted the
manifold glories of "Mister Jan" in the best language at her command. To
love Nature was no sin; Mr. Chirgwin himself did so; and as for the money,
instead of reading the truth of it, he told himself very wisely that the
giver of a sum so tremendous must at least be in earnest. The amount
astounded him. Fired by Joan's words, for as he played the ready listener
her eloquence increased, he fell to thinking as she thought, and even
speaking hopefully. The old farmer's reflections merely echoed his own
simple trust in men and had best not been uttered, for they raised Joan's
spirits to a futile height.
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