Old Vint came in, and readily accepted an invitation to drink his guest's health. Sir George found him loquacious, and soon extracted from him that his daughter Mercy was Leicester's wife, that Leicester was gone on a journey, and that Mercy was in care for him. "Leastways," said he, "she is very dull, and cries at times when her mother speaks of him; but she is too close to say much." All this puzzled Sir George Neville sorely. But greater surprises were in store. The next morning, after breakfast, the servant came and told him Dame Leicester desired to see him. He started at that; but put on nonchalance, and said he was at her service. He was ushered into another parlor, and there he found a grave, comely, young woman, seated working, with a child on the floor beside her. She rose quietly; he bowed low and respectfully; she blushed faintly; but, with every appearance of self-possession, curtsied to him; then eyed him point-blank a single moment; and requested him to be seated. "I hear, sir," said she, "you did ask my father many questions last night; may I ask you one?" Sir George colored, but bowed assent. "From whom had you the black horse you ride?" Now, if Sir George had not been a veracious man, he would have been caught directly. But, although he saw at once the oversight he had committed, he replied, "I had him of a lady in Cumberland, one Mistress Gaunt." Mercy Vint trembled. "No doubt," said she, softly. "Excuse my question; you shall understand that the horse is well known here." "Madam," said Sir George, "if you admire the horse, he is at your service for twenty pounds, though indeed he is worth more." "I thank you, sir," said Mercy, "I have no desire, for the horse whatever; and be pleased to excuse my curiosity; you must think me impertinent." "Nay, madam," said Sir George, "I consider nothing impertinent that hath procured me the pleasure of an interview with you." He then, as directed by Mrs. Gaunt, proceeded to flatter the mother and the child, and exerted those powers of pleasing which had made him irresistible in society. Here, however, he found they went a very little way. Mercy did not even smile. She cast out of her dove-like eyes a gentle, humble, reproachful glance, as much as to say, "What! do I seem so vain a creature as to believe all this?" Sir George himself had tact and sensibility; and, by-and-by became discontented with the part he was playing, under those meek, honest, eyes. There was a pause: and, as her sex have a wonderful art of reading the face, Mercy looked at him steadily, and said, "Yes, sir, 'tis best to be straightforward, especially with women-folk." Before he could recover this little facer, she said, quietly, "What is your name?" "George Neville."