And your name?"
"Joan Tregenza. If you'll be so good as to put a question round 'mongst the
painting gen'lemen, I'd thank 'e kindly."
"Then I certainly will. And on Saturday next I'll come here again to tell
you if I have heard anything. Will you come?"
"Iss fay, an' thank you, sir."
So he passed slowly forward, and she sat a full hour after he had left her
building new castles on the old crumbling foundations. It was even in her
mind to pray, to pray with her whole heart and soul; but chaos had settled
like a storm upon her beliefs. She did not know where to pray to now; yet
to-day Hope once more glimmered like a lighthouse lamp through the dreary
darkness. So she turned her eyes to that radiance and waited for next
Saturday to come.
Then she set about grubbing up roots of hemp agrimony where they grew. She
was almost happy and whistled gently to herself as she filled her little
basket.
That night Edmund Murdoch heard his cousin's story and explained that
"Mister Jan" was doubtless John Barron.
"I'm owing the beggar a letter; I'll write tomorrow."
"Was it a good picture?"
"I should say that few better ever came out of Newlyn. Perhaps none so
good. Is the model as pretty as ever?"
Young Harry raved of the vision that Joan had presented among the
meadowsweets.
"Well, I suppose he wouldn't mind her knowing where he lives; but he's such
a queer devil that I'll write and ask him first.
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