"I promised you a little picture of that big ship, didn't I?"

"You was that kind, sir."

"Well, I haven't forgotten it. I finished the picture this morning and I
think you may like it, but I had to leave it until to-morrow, because the
paints take so long to dry."

"I'm sure I thank you kindly, sir."

"No need. To-morrow it will be quite ready for you, with a frame and all
complete. You see I've begun to try and paint the gorse." He invited her by
a gesture to view his work. She came closer, and as she bent he glanced up
at her with his face for a moment close to hers. Then she drew back
quickly, blushing.

"'Tis butivul--just like them fuzzes."

He had been working for two hours before she came, painting a small patch
of the gorse. Old gnarled stems wound upward crookedly, and beneath them
lay a dead carpet of gorse needles with a blade or two of grass shooting
through. From the roots and bases of the main stems sprouted many a shoot
of young gorse, their prickles tender as the claws of a new-born kitten,
their shape, color, and foliage of thorns quite different to the mature
plant above. There, in the main masses of the shrub, mossy brown buds in
clumps foretold future splendor. But already much gold had burst the sheath
and was ablaze, scenting the pure air, murmured over by many bees.

"You could a'most pick thicky theer flowers," declared Joan of the picture.