Mrs. Vint went to the stair-foot and screamed, "Mercy, the good doctor wants his fee. Who is to pay it, I wonder?"
"I'll bring it him anon," said a gentle voice: and Mercy soon came down and paid it with a willing air that half disarmed professional fury.
"'Tis a good lass, dame," said the doctor, when she was gone; "and, by the same token, I wish her better mated than to a scrub of a farrier."
Griffith, still weak, but freed of fever, woke one glorious afternoon, and heard a bird-like voice humming a quaint old ditty, and saw a field of golden wheat through an open window, and seated at that window the mellow songstress, Mercy Vint, plying her needle, with lowered lashes but beaming face, a picture of health and quiet womanly happiness. Things were going to her mind in that sick-room.
He looked at her, and at the golden corn and summer haze beyond, and the tide of life seemed to rush back upon him.
"My good lass," said he, "tell me, where am I? for I know not."
Mercy started, and left off singing, then rose and came slowly towards him, with her work in her hand.
Innocent joy at this new symptom of convalescence flushed her comely features, but she spoke low.
"Good sir, at the 'Packhorse,'" said she, smiling. "The 'Packhorse?' and where is that?"
"Hard by Allerton village."