"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'?"