"That is right, sir: tax us all to your heart's content. O, but I'm a joyful woman to hear you; for 'tis a sure sign of mending when the sick take to rating of their nurses."
"In sooth, I am too cross-grained," said Griffith, relenting.
"Not a whit, sir, for my taste. I've been in care for you: and now you are a little cross, that maketh me easy."
"Thou art a good soul. Wilt sing me a stave after all?"
"La, you now; how you come back to that. Ay, and with a good heart: for, to be sure, 'tis a sin to gainsay a sick man. But indeed I am the homeliest singer. Methinks 'tis time I went down and bade them cook your worship's supper."
"Nay, I'll not eat nor sup, till I hear thee sing."
"Your will is my law, sir," said Mercy, drily, and retired to the window-seat; that was the first obvious preliminary. Then she fiddled with her apron, and hem'd, and waited in hopes a reprieve might come; but a peevish, relentless voice demanded the song at intervals.
So then she turned her head carefully away from her hearer, lowered her eyes, and, looking the picture of guilt and shame all the time, sang an ancient ditty. The poltroon's voice was rich, mellow, clear, and sweet as honey; and she sang the notes for the sake of the words, not the words for the sake of the notes, as all but Nature's singers do.
The air was grave as well as sweet; for Mercy was of an old Puritan stock, and even her songs were not giddy-paced, but solid, quaint, and tender; all the more did they reach the soul.
In vain was the blushing cheek averted, and the honeyed lips: the ravishing tones set the birds chirping outside, yet filled the room within, and the glasses rang in harmony upon the shelf as the sweet singer poured out from her heart (so it seemed) the speaking song that begins thus——