, I'll not eat nor sup till I hear thee sing."

"Your will is my law, sir," said Mercy, dryly, and retired to the
window-seat; that was the first obvious preliminary. Then she fiddled
with her apron, and hemmed, 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:--

"In vain you tell your parting lover
You wish fair winds may waft him over.
Alas! what winds can happy prove
That bear me far from her I love?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain
From stinted love and cold disdain?" etc.

Griffith beat time with his hand awhile, and his face softened and
beautified as the melody curled about his heart. But soon it was too
much for him. He knew the song,--had sung it to Kate Peyton in their
days of courtship. A thousand memories gushed in upon his soul and
overpowered him. He burst out sobbing violently, and wept as if his
heart must break.

"Alas! what have I done?" said Mercy; and the tears ran from her eyes at
the sight. Then, with native delicacy, she hurried from the room.

What Griffith Gaunt went through that night, in silence, was never known
but to himself. But the next morning he was a changed man. He was all
dogged resolution,--put on his clothes unaided, though he could hardly
stand to do it, and borrowed the landlord's staff, and crawled out a
smart distance into the sun. "It was kill or cure," said he. "I am to
live, it seems. Well, then, the past is dead. My life begins again
to-day."

Hen-like, Mercy soon learned this sally of her refractory duckling, and
was uneasy. So, for an excuse to watch him, she