"George," said Mercy, gravely, "be you my friend, not my enemy."
"Why, madam," said he, "sure you can't think me such a wretch."
"I mean, our flatterers are our enemies."
Sir George took the hint, given, as it was, very gravely and decidedly; and henceforth showed her his respect by his acts; he paid her as much attention as if she had been a princess. He handed her out, and handed her in; and coaxed her to eat here, and to drink there; and at the inn where the passengers slept for the night, he showed his long purse, and secured her superior comforts. Console her he could not; but he broke the sense of utter desolation and loneliness with which she started from Carlisle. She told him so in the inn, and descanted on the goodness of God, who had sent her a friend in that bitter hour.
"You have been very kind to me, George," said she. "Now Heaven bless you for it, and give you many happy days, and well spent."
This, from one who never said a word she did not mean, sank deep into Sir George's; heart, and he went to sleep thinking of her, and asking himself, was there nothing he could do for her.
Next morning Sir George handed Mercy and her babe into the coach; and the villain tried an experiment to see what value she set on him. He did not get in, so Mercy thought she had seen the last of him.
"Farewell, good, kind George," said she; "alas, there's nought but meeting and parting in this weary world."
The tears stood in her sweet eyes, and she thanked him, not with words only, but with the soft pressure of her womanly hand.
He slipped up behind the coach, and was ashamed of himself, and his heart warmed to her more and more.