Harry Vint rung the crown piece on the table before he committed himself to a reply. It rang like a bell. "Churl or not, his coin is good," said Harry Vint, philosophically. "I'll eat his supper, dame, for that matter."
"Father," whispered Mercy, "I do think the gentleman is in trouble."
"And that is no business of mine, neither," said Harry Vint.
Presently the guest they were discussing called loudly for a quart of burnt wine.
When it was ready, Mercy offered to take it in to him. She was curious. The landlord looked up rather surprised; for his daughter attended to the farm, but fought shy of the inn and its business.
"Take it, lass, and welcome for me," said Mrs. Vint, pettishly.
Mercy took the wine in, and found Griffith with his head buried in his hands.
She stood a while with the tray, not knowing what to do.
Then, as he did not move, she said, softly, "The wine, sir, an if it please you."
Griffith lifted his head, and turned two eyes clouded with suffering upon her; he saw a buxom, blooming, young woman, with remarkably dove-like eyes that dwelt with timid, kindly curiosity upon him. He looked at her in a half distracted way, and then put his hand to the mug. "Here's perdition to all false women!" said he, and tossed half the wine down at a single draught.