"There, now, that is too high," said he; "how awkward you are."
"I lack experience, sir, but not good will. There, now, is that a little better?"
"Ay, a little. I'm sick of lying here. I want to get up. Dost hear what I say? I—want—to get up."
"And so you shall. As soon as ever you are fit. To-morrow, perhaps. To-day you must e'en be patient. Patience is a rare medicine."
Tic, tic, tic! "What a noise they are making down stairs. Go, lass, and bid them hold their peace."
Mercy shook her head. "Good lack-a-day! we might as well bid the river give over running; but, to be sure, this comes of keeping a hostelry, sir. When we had only the farm, we were quiet, and did no ill to no one."
"Well, sing me, to drown their eternal buzzing: it worries me dead."
"Me sing! alack, sir, I'm no songster."
"That is false. You sing like a throstle. I dote on music; and, when I was delirious, I heard one singing about my bed; I thought it was an angel at that time, but 't was only you, my young mistress: and now I ask you, you say me nay. That is the way with you all. Plague take the girl, and all her d——d, unreasonable, hypocritical sex. I warrant me you'd sing, if I wanted to sleep, and dance the Devil to a standstill."