"A farrier rob me of my patient!" cried the doctor, in high dudgeon. "Nay, good sir, 'tis no fault of mine. This Paul is a sort of a kind of a follower of our Mercy's: and she is mistress here, I trow." "And what hath his farriership prescribed? Friar's balsam, belike." "Nay, I know not; but you may soon learn, for he is above, physicking the gentleman (a pretty gentleman!) and suiting to our Mercy--after a manner." The doctor declined to make one in so mixed a consultation. "Give me my fee, dame," said he: "and as for this impertinent farrier, the patient's blood be on his head; and I'd have him beware the law." Mrs. Vint went to the stair-foot and screamed, "Mercy, the good doctor wants his fee. Who is to pay it, I wonder?" "I'll bring it him anon," said a gentle voice: and Mercy soon came down and paid it with a willing air that half disarmed professional fury. "'Tis a good lass, dame," said the doctor, when she was gone; "and, by the same token, I wish her better mated than to a scrub of a farrier." Griffith, still weak, but freed of fever, woke one glorious afternoon, and heard a bird-like voice humming a quaint old ditty, and saw a field of golden wheat through an open window, and seated at that window the mellow songstress, Mercy Vint, plying her needle, with lowered lashes but beaming face, a picture of health and quiet womanly happiness. Things were going to her mind in that sick-room. He looked at her, and at the golden corn and summer haze beyond, and the tide of life seemed to rush back upon him. "My good lass," said he, "tell me, where am I? for I know not." Mercy started, and left off singing, then rose and came slowly towards him, with her work in her hand. Innocent joy at this new symptom of convalescence flushed her comely features, but she spoke low. "Good sir, at the 'Packhorse,'" said she, smiling. "The 'Packhorse?' and where is that?" "Hard by Allerton village." "And where is that? not in Cumberland?" "Nay, in Lancashire, your worship. Why, whence come you that know not the 'Packhorse,' nor yet Allerton township? Come you from Cumberland?" "No matter whence I come. I'm going on board ship; like my father before me." "Alas, sir, you are not fit; you have been very ill; and partly distraught." She stopped: for Griffith turned his face to the wall with a deep groan. It had all rushed over him in a moment. Mercy stood still, and worked on, but the water gathered in her eyes at that eloquent groan. By-and-by Griffith turned round again, with a face of anguish, and filmy eyes, and saw her in the same place standing, working, and pitying. "What, are you there still?" said he, roughly. "Ay, sir; but I'll go, sooner than be troublesome. Can I fetch you anything?" "No. Ay, wine; bring me wine to drown it all." She brought him a pint of wine. "Pledge me," said he, with a miserable attempt at a smile.