"Who should it be for, thou simple body? Keep quiet, do, till the change comes. 'Twon't be long now; art too well to last till sun-down."
"So 'tis for me, is it?" screamed Griffith. "I'll disappoint ye yet. Give me my clothes. I'll not lie here to be measured for my grave, ye old witch."
"Here's manners!" cackled the indignant crone. "Ye foul-mouthed knave! is this how you thank a decent woman for making a comfortable corpse of ye, you that has no right to die in your shoes, let a be such dainties as muslin neck-ruff, and shroud of good Dutch flax."
At this Griffith discharged a volley, in which "vulture," "hag," "blood-sucker," etc., blended with as many oaths: during which Mercy came in.
She glided to him, with her dove's eyes full of concern, and laid her hand gently on his shoulder: "You'll work yourself a mischief," said she; "leave me to scold her. Why, my good Nelly, how could you be so hare-brained? prithee take all that trumpery away this minute: none here needeth it, nor shall not this many a year, please God."
"They want me dead," said Griffith to her, piteously, finding he had got one friend: and sunk back on his pillow exhausted.
"So it seems," said Mercy, cunningly. "But I'd baulk them finely. I'd up and order a beef-steak this minute."
"And shall," said Griffith, with feeble spite. "Leastways, do you order it, and I'll eat it:— d——n her!"
Sick men are like children; and women soon find that out, and manage them accordingly. In ten minutes Mercy brought a good rump-steak to the bedside, and said "Now for't. Marry come, up, with her winding-sheets!"
Thus played upon, and encouraged, the great baby ate more than half the steak; and soon after perspired gently, and fell asleep.