, and anticipate his brilliant
career. He had to look and listen with an aching heart, and assent with
feigned warmth, and an inward chill of horror and remorse.

One Drummond, a travelling artist, called; and Mercy, who had often
refused to sit to him, consented now; "for," she said, "when he grows
up, he shall know how his parents looked in their youth, the very year
their darling was born." So Griffith had to sit with her, and excellent
likenesses the man produced; but a horrible one of the child. And
Griffith thought, "Poor soul! a little while and this picture will be
all that shall be left to thee of me."

For all this time he was actually transacting the preliminaries of
separation. He got a man of law to make all sure. The farm, the stock,
the furniture and good-will of the "Packhorse," all these he got
assigned to Mercy Leicester for her own use, in consideration of three
hundred and fifty pounds, whereof three hundred were devoted to clearing
the concern of its debts, the odd fifty was to sweeten the pill to Harry
Vint.

When the deed came to be executed, Mercy was surprised, and uttered a
gentle remonstrance. "What have I to do with it?" said she. "'T is thy
money, not mine."

"No matter," said Griffith; "I choose to have it so."

"Your will is my law," said Mercy.

"Besides," said Griffith, "the old folk will not feel so sore, nor be
afraid of being turned out, if it is in thy name."

"And that is true," said Mercy. "Now who had thought of that, but my
good man?" And she threw her arms lovingly round his neck, and gazed on
him adoringly.

But his lion-like eyes avoided her dove-like eyes; and an involuntary
shudder ran through him.

The habit of deceiving Mercy led to a consequence he had not
anticipated. It tightened the chain that held him. She opened his eyes
more and more to her deep affection, and he began to fear she would die
if he abandoned her.

And then her present situation was so touching. She had borne him a
lovely boy; that must be abandoned too, if he left her; and somehow the
birth of this child had embellished the mother; a delicious pink had
taken the place of her rustic bloom; and her beauty was more refined and
delicate. So pure, so loving, so fair, so maternal, to wound her heart
now, it seemed like stabbing an angel.

One day succeeded to another, and still Griffith had not the heart to
carry out his resolve. He temporized; he wrote to Kate that he was
detained by the bus