gorse will be nearly as large as life, and I've been wondering ever so long
what I shall put in the middle; and whatever do you think I've thought of?"

"I dunnaw. That white pony us saw, p'raps?"

"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."