"Iss fay! Him or her as first brings blackthorn in the house dies afore it
blows again. Truth--solemn--us all knaws it down in these paarts. 'Tis a
bewitched thing--a wicked plant, an' you can see it grawin' all
humpetty-backed an' bent an' crooked. Wance, when a man killed hisself,
they did use to bury en wheer roads met an' put a blackthorn stake through
en; an' it all us grawed arter; an' that's the worstest sort o' all."

"Dear, dear, I'm glad you told me, Joan; I will not wear it, nor shall
you," he said, and flung it down and stamped on it very seriously.

The girl was gratified.

"I judge you'm a furriner, else you'd knawn 'bout the wickedness o'
blackthorn."

"I am. Thank you very much. But for you I should have gone home wearing it.
That puts me in your debt, Joan."

"'Tain't nothin', awnly there's a many coorious Carnish things like that.
An' coorious customs what some doan't hold with an' some does."

She sat down near the cliff edge with her back to him, and he smiled to
himself to find how quickly his mild manners and reserve had put the girl
at her ease. She looked perfect that afternoon and he yearned to begin
painting her; but his scheme of action demanded time for its perfect
fulfillment and ultimate success. He let the little timorous chatterbox
talk. Her voice was soft and musical as the cooing of a wood-dove, and the
sweet full notes chimed in striking contrast to her uncouth speech. But
Joan's diction gave pleasure to the listener. It had freedom and wildness,