"No; something much prettier. How would it do, d'you think, if _you_ stood here in front of the gorse, just to fill up the middle piece of the picture?" "Oh, no, no! My faither--" "You misunderstand, Joan. I don't want a picture of _you_, you know; I'm going to paint the gorse. But if you just stood here, you'd make a sort of contrast with your brown frock. Not a portrait at all, only just a figure to help the color. Besides, you mustn't think I'm an artist, I shouldn't go selling the picture or hanging it up for everybody to stare at it. I'm certain your father wouldn't mind, and I'll tell him all about it afterward, if you like." She hesitated and reflected with trouble in her eyes, while Barron quietly took the picture he had brought her and wrapped it up in a piece of paper. His object was to remind her without appearing to do so of her obligation to him, and Joan was clever enough to take the hint, though not clever enough to see that it was an intentional one. "Would it be a long job, sir?" she asked at length. "Yes, it would; because I'm a slow painter and rather stupid. But I should think it very, very kind of you. I'm not strong, you know, and I daresay this is the last picture I shall ever paint." "You ed'n strong, sir?" "Not at all." She was silent, and a great sympathy rose in her girl's heart, for frail health always made her sad. "You don't judge 'tis wrong then for a maiden to be painted in a picksher?" "Certainly not, Joan. I should never suggest such a thing to you if I thought it was in the least wrong. I _know_ it isn't wrong." "I seed you issterday," she said, changing the subject suddenly, "but you dedn see me, did 'e?" "Yes, I did, and your father. He is a grand-looking man. By the way, Joan, I think I never told you my name. I'm called John; that's short and simple, isn't it?" "Mister Jan," she said. "No, not 'mister'--just 'Jan,'" he answered, adopting her pronunciation. "I don't call you 'Miss' Joan." She looked at once uncomfortable and pleased. "We must be friends," the man continued calmly, "now you have promised to let me put you here among the gorse bushes." "Sure, I dunnaw 'bout the picksher, Mister Jan." "Well, you would be doing me a great service. I want to paint you very much and I think you will be kind." He looked into her eyes with a steady, inquiring glance, and Joan experienced a new emotion. Joe had never looked like that; nor yet her father. She felt a will stronger than her own was busy with her inclinations. Volition remained free, and yet she doubted whether under any circumstances could she refuse his petition. As it happened, however, she already liked the man. He was so respectful and polite. Moreover, she felt sad to hear that he suffered in health. He would not ask her to do wrong and she felt certain that she might trust him. A trembling wish and a longing to comply with his request already mastered her mind. "You'm sure--gospel truth--theer ed'n no harm in it?"