As for John Barren, he felt kindly enough toward his model. He could hold himself with an iron hand when he pleased, and proposed that the growing friendship should ripen into a fine work of art and no more. But what might go to the making of the picture could not be foretold. He would certainly allow nothing to check inspiration or stand between him and the very best he had power to achieve. No sacrifice could be too great for Art, and Barron, who was now awake and alive for an achievement, would, according to his rule, count nothing hard, nothing impossible that might add a grain of value to the work. His own skill and Joan's beauty were brought in contact and he meant to do everything a man might do to make the result immortal. But the human instruments necessary to such work counted for nothing, and their personal prosperity and welfare would weigh no more with him than the future of the brushes which he might use, after he had done with them. CHAPTER SEVEN UNCLE CHIRGWIN Joan's first announcement upon the following morning was a regret that the sitting must be short. "We'm mighty busy, come wan thing an' another," she said. "Mother's gwaine to Penzance wi' my brother to buy his seafarin' kit; and Uncle Chirgwin, as keeps a farm up Drift, be comin' to dinner, which he ain't done this long time; an' faither may by chance be home tu, so like as not, for the first bwoats be tackin' back from the islands a'ready." "You shall stop just as short a time as you choose, Joan. It was very good of you to come at all under these circumstances," declared the artist. "Us be fine an' busy when uncle comes down-long, an' partickler this time, 'cause theer've bin a differ'nce of 'pinion 'bout--'bout a matter betwixt him and faither, but now he's wrote through the post to say as he'm comin', so 'tis all right, I s'pose, an' us'll have to give en a good dinner anyways." "Of course you must," admitted Barren, working steadily the while. "He'm a dear sawl, an' I likes en better'n anybody in the world, I think, 'cept faither. But he's easier to please than faither, an' so humble as a beggar-man. An' I wants to make some cakes for en against tea-time, 'cause when he comes, he bides till candle-lighting or later." Presently the artist bid her rest for a short while, and her thoughts reverted to him and the picture. "I hope as you'm feelin' strong an' no worser, Mister Jan," she said timidly. He was puzzled for a moment, then recollected that he had mentioned his health to her. "Thank you very much for asking, Joan. It was good and thoughtful. I am no worse--rather better if anything, now I come to think about it. Your Cornish air is kind to me, and when the sun shines I am happy." "How be the picksher farin'?" "I get on well, I think." "'Tis cruel clever of 'e, Mister Jan. An' you'll paint me wi' the fuzz all around?" "That is what I hope to do; a harmony in brown and gold."