still water. Then Joan knew the fish were being sold by auction, and she
grew anxious for her father's return, fearing prices might have fallen
before he arrived. Great periods of silence lay between the ringings of the
bell, and at such times only faint laughter floated out from shore, or
blocks chipped and rattled as a sail came down or a concertina squeaked
fitfully where it was played on a Norwegian iceboat at the harbor quay. The
tide ran high, and Joan watched the lights reflected in the harbor and
wondered why the gold of them contrasted so ill with the silver from the
moon.

Presently two men came along to the pierhead. They smoked, looked at the
sea, and did not notice her where she sat in shadow. One, the larger, wore
knickerbockers, talked loudly, and looked a giant in the vague light; the
other was muffled up in a big ulster, and Joan would not have recognized
Barron had he not spoken. But he answered his friend, and then the girl's
heart leaped to hear that quiet, unimpassioned voice. He spoke of matters
which she did not understand, of pictures and light and all manner of
puzzles set by Nature for the solution of art; but though for the most part
his remarks conveyed no meaning to her, yet he closed a sentence with words
that made her happy, and warmed her heart and left a precious memory behind
them.

"Moonlight is a problem only less difficult than sunshine," he said to his
friend. "Where are you going to get that?" and he pointed to the sea.

"It's been jolly well done all the same."

"Never. It is not to be done. You can suggest by a trick, but God defend us
from tricks and sleight-of-hand in connection with the solemn business of
painting pictures. Let us be true or nothing."