And so it was with Griffith. His love got benumbed, and the sense of his wrongs vivid. He nursed a bitter hatred of his wife; only, as he could not punish her without going near her, and no punishment short of death seemed enough for her, he set to work to obliterate her from his very memory, if possible. He tried employment: he pottered about the little farm, advising and helping, and that so zealously that the landlord retired altogether from that department, and Griffith, instead of he, became Mercy's ally, agricultural and bucolical. She was a shepherdess to the core, and hated the poor "Packhorse." For all that it was her fate to add to its attractions: for Griffith bought a viol da gambo, and taught her sweet songs, which he accompanied with such skill and, sometimes, with his voice, that good company often looked in on the chance of a good song sweetly sung and played. The sick in body, or mind, are egotistical. Griffith was no exception: bent on curing his own deep wound, he never troubled his head about the wound he might inflict. He was grateful to his sweet nurse, and told her so. And his gratitude charmed her all the more that it had been rather long in coming. He found this dove-like creature a wonderful soother: he applied her more and more to his sore heart. As for Mercy, she had been too good and kind to her patient not to take a tender interest in his convalescence. Our hearts warm more to those we have been kind to, than to those who have been kind to us: and the female reader can easily imagine what delicious feelings stole into that womanly heart, when she saw her pale nursling pick up health and strength under her wing, and become the finest, handsomest man in the parish. Pity and admiration; where these meet, love is not far behind. And then this man, who had been cross and rough while he was weak, became gentler, kinder, and more deferential to her, the stronger he got. Mrs. Vint saw they were both fond of each other's company, and disapproved it. She told Paul Garrick if he had any thought of Mercy he had bettor give over shilly-shallying, for there was another man after her. Paul made light of it at first. "She has known me too long to take up her head with a newcomer," said he. "To be sure I never asked her to name the day; but she knows my mind well enough, and I know hers." "Then you know more than I do," said the mother, ironically. He thought over this conversation, and very wisely determined not to run unnecessary risks: he came up one afternoon, and hunted about for Mercy, till he found her milking a cow in the adjoining paddock. "Well, lass," said he, "I've good news for thee. My old dad says we may have his house to live in. So now you and I can yoke next month if ye will." "Me turn the honest man out of his house!" said Mercy, mighty innocently. "Who asks you? He nobbut bargains for the chimney corner: and you are not the girl to begrudge the old man that."