"May I make so bold as to ax if you do knaw a paintin' gen'leman by name o'--o' Mister Jan? Leastways, that's wan on's names, but I never can call home the other, though he tawld me wance. He was here last early spring-time, an' painted a gert picture of me up 'pon top the hill they calls Gorse Point." "Lucky devil," thought the artist; but though he knew something of Barron and his work and had heard that Barron painted when at Newlyn, he did not associate these facts with the girl before him. "He'm in Lunnon, so far's I knaw," she continued. Harry Murdoch had to look hard at Joan before answering, and he delayed a while with an expression of deep thought upon his face. At length he spoke. "No, I cannot say that I have heard of him or the picture. But perhaps some of the men in Newlyn will know. He was lucky to get you to paint. I wish you would let me try." She shook her head impatiently. "No, no. He done it 'cause--'cause he just wanted a livin' thing to fill up a bit o' his canvas. 'Tweern't for shaw or for folks to see. He done it for pleasure. An' I wants to knaw wheer he lives 'cause he might think I be in Newlyn still, but I ban't. I'm livin' up Drift along wi' Mr. Chirgwin. An' I wish he could knaw it." "He was called 'Mister John'? Well, I'll see what I can do to find out anything about him. 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. We shall hear in a couple of days; I can tell him her address, at any rate; then he may write direct to her, if he cares to." CHAPTER TEN TWO LETTERS