"You'm a artist, then?" she said, with alarm in her face and voice. He shook his head. "No, no. Do I look like an artist? I'm only a stranger down here for a day or two. I paint things sometimes for my own amusement, that's all." "Pickshers?" "They are not worth calling pictures. Just scraps of the sea and trees and cliffs and sky, to while away the time and remind me of beautiful things after I have left them." "You ban't a artist ezacally, then?" "Certainly not. Don't you like artists?" "Faither don't. He'm a fisherman an' caan't abear many things as happens in the world. An' not artists. Genlemen have arsked him to let 'em take my picksher, 'cause they've painted a good few maidens to Newlyn; an' some of 'em wanted to paint faither as well; but he up an' sez 'No!' short. Paintin's vanity 'cordin' to faither, same as they flags an' cannels an' moosic to Newlyn church is vanity. Most purty things is vanity, faither reckons." "I'm sure he's a wise man. And I think he's right, especially about the candles and flags in church. And now I must go on my walk. Let me see, shall I bring you the little picture of Joe's ship here? I often walk out this way." He assumed she would take the picture, and now she feared to object. Moreover, such a sketch would be precious in her eyes. "Maybe 'tis troublin' of 'e, sir?" "I've promised you. I always keep my word. I shall be here to-morrow about mid-afternoon, because it is lonely and quiet and beautiful. I'm going to try and paint the gorse, all blazing so brightly against the sky." "Them prickly fuzz-bushes?" "Yes; because they are very beautiful." "But they'm everywheres. You might so well paint the bannel [Footnote: _Bannel_--Broom.] or the yether on the moors, mightn't 'e?" "They are beautiful, too. Remember, I shall have Joe's ship for you to-morrow." He nodded without smiling, and turned away until a point of the gorse had hidden her from sight. Then he sat down, loaded his pipe, and reflected. "'Joe's ship,'" he said to himself, "a happy title enough." And meantime the girl had looked after him with wonder and some amusement in her eyes, had rubbed her chin reflectively--a habit caught from her father--and had then scampered off smiling to herself. "What a funny gent," she thought, "never laughs nor nothin'. An' I judged he was a artist! But wonnerful kind, an' wonnerful queer, wi' it, sure 'nough." CHAPTER THREE THE TREGENZAS Joan Tregenza lived in a white cottage already mentioned: that standing just beyond Newlyn upon a road above the sea. The cot was larger than it appeared from the road and extended backward into an orchard of plum and apple-trees. The kitchen which opened into this garden was stone-paved, cool, comfortable, sweet at all times with the scent of wood smoke, and frequently not innocent of varied fishy odors. But Newlyn folk suck in a smell of fish with their mothers' milk. 'Tis part of the atmosphere of home.