They had been married, and lived in sweet content, about three quarters of a year--when trouble came; but in a vulgar form. A murrain carried off several of Harry Vint's cattle; and it then came out that he had purchased six of them on credit, and had been induced to set his hand to bills of exchange for them. His rent was also behind, and, in fact, his affairs were in a desperate condition. He hid it as long as he could from them all; but at last, being served with a process for debt, and threatened with a distress and an execution, he called a family council and exposed the real state of things. Mrs. Vint rated him soundly for keeping all this secret so long. He whom they called Thomas Leicester remonstrated with him. "Had you told me in time," said he, "I had not paid forfeit for 'The Vine,' but settled there, and given you a home." Mercy said never a word but "Poor father!" As the peril drew nearer, the conversations became more animated and agitated, and soon the old people took to complaining of Thomas Leicester to his wife. "Thou hast married a gentleman; and he hath not the heart to lift a hand to save thy folk from ruin." "Say not so," pleaded Mercy: "to be sure he hath the heart, but not the means. 'T was but yestreen he bade me sell his jewels for you. But, mother, I think they belonged to some one he loved,--and she died. So, poor thing, how could I? Then, if you love me, blame me, and not him." "Jewels, quotha! will they stop such a gap as ours?" was the contemptuous reply. From complaining of him behind his back, the old people soon came to launching innuendoes obliquely at him. Here is one specimen out of a dozen. "Wife, if our Mercy had wedded one of her own sort, mayhap he'd have helped us a bit." "Ay, poor soul; and she so near her time: if the bailiffs come down on us next month, 'tis my belief we shall lose her, as well as house and home." The false Thomas Leicester let them run on, in dogged silence; but every word was a stab. And one day, when he had been baited sore with hints, he turned round on them fiercely, and said: "Did I get you into this mess? It's all your own doing. Learn to see your own faults, and not be so hard on one that has been the best servant you ever had, gentleman or not." Men can resist the remonstrances that wound them, and so irritate them, better than they can those gentle appeals that rouse no anger, but soften the whole heart. The old people stung him; but Mercy, without design, took a surer way. She never said a word; but sometimes, when the discussions were at their height, she turned her dove-like eyes on him, with a look so loving, so humbly inquiring, so timidly imploring, that his heart melted within him. Ah, that is a true touch of nature and genuine observation of the sexes, in the old song,-- "My feyther urged me sair; My mither didna speak; But she looked me in the face, Till my hairt was like to break."