ake away
the bottle, if he was committing excess; but she had a way of doing it,
so like a good, but resolute mother, and so unlike a termagant, that he
never resisted. Upon the whole, she nursed his mind, as in earlier days
she had nursed his body.

And then she made him so comfortable: she observed him minutely to that
end. As is the eye of a maid to the hand of her mistress, so Mercy
Leicester's dove-like eye was ever watching "her master's" face, to
learn the minutest features of his mind.

One evening he came in tired, and there was a black fire in the parlor.
His countenance fell the sixteenth of an inch. You and I, sir, should
never have noticed it. But Mercy did, and, ever after, there was a clear
fire when he came in.

She noted, too, that he loved to play the _viol da gambo_, but disliked
the trouble of tuning it. So then she tuned it for him.

When he came home at night, early or late, he was sure to find a dry
pair of shoes on the rug, his six-stringed viol tuned to a hair, a
bright fire, and a brighter wife, smiling and radiant at his coming, and
always neat; for, said she, "Shall I don my bravery for strangers, and
not for my Thomas, that is the best of company?"

They used to go to church, and come back together, hand in hand like
lovers; for the arm was rarely given in those days. And Griffith said to
himself every Sunday, "What a comfort to have a Protestant wife!"

But one day he was off his guard, and called her "Kate, my dear."

"Who is Kate?" said she softly, but with a degree of trouble and
intelligence that made him tremble.

"No matter," said he, all in a flutter. Then, solemnly, "Whoever she
was, she is dead,--dead."

"Ah!" said Mercy, very tenderly and solemnly, and under her breath. "You
loved her; yet she must die." She paused; then, in a tone so exquisite I
can only call it an angel's whisper, "Poor Kate!"

Griffith groaned aloud. "For God's sake, never mention that name to me
again. Let me forget she ever lived. She was not the true friend to me
that you have been."

Mercy replied, softly, "Say not so, Thomas. You loved her well. Her
death had all but cost me thine. Ah, well! we cannot all be the first. I
am not very jealous, for my part; and I thank God for 't. Thou art a
dear good husband to me, and that is enow."

* * * * *

Paul Carrick, unable to break off his habits, came to the "Packhorse"
now and then; but Mercy protected her husband's