"So you are going, are ye?" said he. "A good job, too." Then, turning to the other, "Master Gutteridge, never you save a man's life, if you can anyways help it. I saved this one's; and what does he do but turn round and poison my sweetheart against me?" "How can you say so?" remonstrated Griffith. "I never belied you. Your name scarce ever passed my lips." "Don't tell me," said Carrick. "However, she has come to her senses, and given your worship the sack. Ride you into Cumberland, and I to the 'Packhorse,' and take my own again." With this, he unhooked his nag from the wall, and clattered off to the "Packhorse." Griffith sat a moment stupefied, and then his face was convulsed by his ruling passion. He wheeled his horse, gave him the spur, and galloped after Carrick. He soon came up with him, and yelled in his ear, "I'll teach you to spit your wormwood in my cup of sorrow." Carrick shook his fist defiantly, and spurred his horse in turn. It was an exciting race, and a novel one, but soon decided. The great black hunter went ahead, and still improved his advantage. Carrick, purple with rage, was full a quarter of a mile behind, when Griffith dashed furiously into the stable of the "Packhorse," and, leaving Black Dick panting and covered with foam, ran in search of Mercy. The girl told him she was in the dairy. He looked in at the window, and there she was with her mother. With instinctive sense and fortitude she had fled to work. She was trying to churn; but it would not do: she had laid her shapely arm on the churn, and her head on it, and was crying. Mrs. Vint was praising Carrick, and offering homely consolation. "Ah, mother," sighed Mercy, "I could have made him happy. He does not know that; and he has turned his back on content. What will become of him?" Griffith heard no more. He went round to the front door, and rushed in. "Take your own way, Dame," said he, in great agitation. "Put up the banns when you like. Sweetheart, wilt wed with me? I'll make thee the best husband I can." Mercy screamed faintly, and lifted up her hands; then she blushed and trembled to her very finger ends; but it ended in smiles of joy and her brow upon his shoulder. In which attitude, with Mrs. Vint patting him approvingly on the back, they were surprised by Paul Carrick. He came to the door, and there stood aghast. The young man stared ruefully at the picture, and then said, very dryly, "I'm too late, methinks." "That you be, Paul," said Mrs. Vint, cheerfully. "She is meat for your master." "Don't--you--never--come to me--to save your life--no more," blubbered Paul, breaking down all of a sudden. He then retired, little heeded, and came no more to the "Packhorse" for several days. CHAPTER XXIX.