"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. She put the cup to her lips, and sipped a drop or two; but her dove's eyes were looking up at him over the liquor all the time. Griffith soon disposed of the rest, and asked for more. "Nay," said she, "but I dare not: the doctor hath forbidden excess in drinking." "The doctor! What doctor?" "Doctor Paul," said she, demurely. "He hath saved your life, sir, I do think." "Plague take him for that!" "So say not I." Here, she left him with an excuse. "'T is milking time, sir; and you shall know that I am our dairymaid. I seldom trouble the inn." Next day she was on the window-seat, working and beaming. The patient called to her in peevish accents to put his head higher. She laid down her work with a smile, and came and raised his head. "There, now, that is too high," said he; "how awkward you are." "I lack experience, sir, but not good will. There, now, is that a little better?" "Ay, a little. I'm sick of lying here. I want to get up. Dost hear what I say? I--want--to get up." "And so you shall. As soon as ever you are fit. To-morrow, perhaps. To-day you must e'en be patient. Patience is a rare medicine." * * * * * Tic, tic, tic! "What a noise they are making down stairs. Go, lass, and bid them hold their peace." Mercy shook her head. "Good lack-a-day! we might as well bid the river give over running; but, to be sure, this comes of keeping a hostelry, sir. When we had only the farm, we were quiet, and did no ill to no one." "Well, sing me, to drown their eternal buzzing: it worries me dead." "Me sing! alack, sir, I'm no songster." "That is false. You sing like a throstle. I dote on music; and, when I was delirious, I heard one singing about my bed; I thought it was an angel at that time, but 't was only you, my young mistress: and now I ask you, you say me nay. That is the way with you all. Plague take the girl, and all her d----d, unreasonable, hypocritical sex. I warrant me you'd sing, if I wanted to sleep, and dance the Devil to a standstill."