"be seated, mistress, if you please," said mrs. gaunt, with icy civility, "and let me know to what i owe this extraordinary visit."

"i thank you. dame," said mercy, "for indeed i am sore fatigued." she sat quietly down. "why i have come to you? it was to serve you, and to keep my word with george neville."

"will you be kind enough to explain?" said mrs. gaunt, in a freezing tone, and with a look of her great grey eye to match.

mercy felt chilled, and was too frank to disguise it. "alas," said she, softly, "'tis hard to be received so, and me come all the way from lancashire, with a heart like lead, to do my duty, god willing."

the tears stood in her eyes, and her mellow voice was sweet and patient.

the gentle remonstrance was not quite without effect. mrs. gaunt colored a little: she said, stiffly, "excuse me if i seem discourteous: but you and i ought not to be in one room a moment. you do not see this, apparently. but at least i have a right to insist that such an interview shall be very brief, and to the purpose. oblige me then, by telling me in plain terms why you have come hither."

"madam, to be your witness at the trial."

"you to be my witness?"

"why not? if i can clear you? what, would you rather be condemned for murder, than let me show them you are innocent? alas, how you hate me!"

"hate you, child?" said mrs. gaunt, coloring to her temples: "of course i hate you. we are both of us flesh and blood, and hate one another. and one of us is honest enough, and uncivil enough, to say so."

"speak for yourself, dame," replied mercy, quietly, "for i hate you not; and i thank god for it. to hate is to be miserable. i'd liever be hated than to hate."

mrs. gaunt looked at her. "your words are goodly and wise," said she; "your face is honest; and your eyes are like a very dove's. but, for all that, you hate me quietly, with all your heart. human nature is human nature."

"'tis so. but grace is grace." mercy was silent a moment, then resumed, "i'll not deny i did hate you for a time, when first i learned the man i had married had a wife, and you were she. we that be women are too unjust to each other, and too indulgent to a man. but i have worn out my hate. i wrestled in prayer, and the god of love he did quench my most unreasonable hate. for 'twas the man betrayed me; you never wronged me, nor i you. but you are right, madam; 'tis true that nature without grace is black as pitch: the devil he was busy at my ear, and whispered me, 'if the fools in cumberland hang her, what fault o' thine? thou wilt be his lawful wife, and thy poor innocent child will be a child of shame no more.' but, by god's grace, i did defy him. and i do defy him." she rose swiftly from her chair, and her dove's eyes gleamed with celestial light. "get thee behind me, satan. i tell thee the hangman shall never have her innocent body, nor thou my soul."

the movement was so unexpected, the words and the look so simply noble, that mrs. gaunt rose too, and gazed upon her visitor with astonishment and respect—yet still with a dash of doubt.

she thought to herself, "if this creature is not sincere, what a mistress of deceit she must be!"

but mercy vint soon returned to her quiet self. she sat down, and said, gravely, and, for the first time, a little coldly, as one who had deserved well, and been received ill—"mistress gaunt, you are accused of murdering your husband. 'tis false, for two days ago i saw him alive."

"what do you say?" cried mrs. gaunt, trembling all over.

"be brave, madam; you have borne great trouble, do not give way under joy. he who has wronged us both—he who wedded you under his own name of griffith gaunt, and me under the false name of thomas leicester, is no more dead than we are; i saw him two days ago, and spoke to him, and persuaded him to come to carlisle town and do you justice."

mrs. gaunt fell on her knees. "he is alive: he is alive. thank god! oh, thank god! he is alive: and god bless the tongue that tells me so. god bless you eternally, mercy vint."

the tears of joy streamed down her face, and then mercy's flowed too. she uttered a little pathetic cry of joy. "ah," she sobbed, "the bit of comfort i needed so has come to my heavy heart. she has blessed me!"

but she said this very softly, and mrs. gaunt was in a rapture, and did not hear her.

"is it a dream? my husband alive? and you the one to come and tell me so? how unjust i have been to you. forgive me. why does he not come himself?"

mercy colored at this question, and hesitated.

"well, dame," said she, "for one thing, he has been on the fuddle for the last two months."

"on the fuddle?"

"ay; he owns he has never been sober a whole day. and that takes the heart out of a man, as well as the brains. and then he has got it into his head that you will never forgive him; and that he shall be cast in prison if he shows his face in cumberland."

"why in cumberland more than in lancashire?" asked mrs. gaunt, biting her lip.

mercy blushed faintly: she replied with some delicacy, but did not altogether mince the matter.

"he knows i shall never punish him for what he has done to me."

"why not? i begin to think he has wronged you almost as much as he has me."

"worse, madam; worse. he has robbed me of my good name. you are still his lawful wife, and none can point the finger at you. but, look at me: i was an honest girl; respected by all the parish. what has he made of me? the man that lay a dying in my house, and i saved his life, and so my heart did warm to him, he blasphemed god's altar, to deceive and betray me; and here i am, a poor forlorn creature, neither maid, wife, nor widow; with a child on my arms that i do nothing but cry over; ay, my poor innocent, i left thee down below, because i was ashamed she should see thee; all me! ah me!" she lifted up her voice, and wept.

mrs. gaunt looked at her wistfully; and, like mercy before her, had a bitter struggle with human nature; a struggle so sharp that, in the midst of it, she burst, out crying with strange violence: but, with that burst, her great soul conquered.

she darted out of the room, leaving mercy astonished at her abrupt departure.

mercy was patiently drying her eyes, when the door opened, and judge her surprise when she saw mrs. gaunt glide into the room with her little boy asleep in her arms, and an expression upon her face more sublime than anything mercy vint had ever yet seen on earth. she kissed the babe softly, and, becoming infantine as well as angelic by this contact, sat herself down in a moment on the floor with him, and held out her hand to mercy. "there," said she, "come sit beside us; and see how i hate him; no more than you do—sweet innocent."

they looked him all over, discussed his every feature learnedly, kissed his limbs and extremities after the manner of their sex, and comprehending at last that to have been both of them wronged by one man was a bond of sympathy, not hate, the two wives of griffith gaunt laid his child across their two laps, and wept over him together.

mercy vint took herself to task. "i am but a selfish woman," said she, "to talk, or think of anything but that i came here for." she then proceeded to show mrs. gaunt by what means she proposed to secure her acquittal, without getting griffith gaunt into trouble.

mrs. gaunt listened with keen and grateful attention, until she came to that part: then she interrupted her eagerly.

"don't spare him for me. in your place i'd trounce the villain finely."

"ay," said mercy, "and then forgive him. but i am different. i shall never forgive him; but i am a poor hand at punishing and revenging. i always was. my name is mercy, you know. to tell the truth, i was to have been called prudence, after my good aunt; but she said, nay: she had lived to hear greed, and selfishness, and a heap of faults, named prudence: 'call the child something that means what it does mean, and not after me,' quoth she. so with me hearing 'mercy, mercy,' called out after me so many years, i do think the quality hath somehow got under my skin; for i can't abide to see folk smart, let alone to strike the blow. what, shall i take the place of god, and punish the evil-doers, because 'tis me they wrong? nay, dame, i will never punish him, though he hath wronged me cruelly: all i shall do is to think very ill of him, and shun him, and tear his memory out of my heart. you look at me; do you think i cannot? you don't know me. i am very resolute when i see clear. of course i loved him: loved him dearly. he was like a husband to me, and a kind one. but the moment i knew how basely he had deceived us both, my heart began to turn against the man, and now 'tis ice to him. heaven knows what i am made of; for, believe me, i'd liever ten times be beside you than beside him. my heart it lay like a lump of lead till i heard your story, and found i could do you a good turn; you that he had wronged, as well as me. i read your beautiful eyes; but nay, fear me not; i'm not the woman to pine for the fruit that is my neighbor's. all i ask for on earth is a few kind words and looks from you. you are gentle and i am simple; but we are both one flesh and blood, and your lovely wet eyes do prove it this moment. dame gaunt—kate—i ne'er was ten miles from home afore, and i am come all this weary way to serve thee. oh, give me the one thing that can do me good in this world, the one thing i pine for—a little of your love."

the words were scarce out of her lips when mrs. gaunt caught her impetuously round the neck with both hands, and laid her on that erring but noble heart of hers, and kissed her eagerly.

they kissed one another again and again, and wept over one another.

and now mrs. gaunt, who did nothing by halves, could not make enough of mercy vint. she ordered supper and ate with her, to make her eat. mrs. menteith offered mercy a bed; but mrs. gaunt said she must lie with her, she and her child.

"what," said she, "think you i'll let you out of my sight? alas, who knows when you and i shall ever be together again?"

"i know," said mercy, very gravely. "in this world—never."

they slept in one bed, and held each other by the hand all night, and talked to one another, and in the morning knew each the other's story, and each the other's mind and character, better than their oldest acquaintances knew either the one or the other.