"Then no namesake of mine are you; for they call me Harry Vint. Thomas Leicester, he that keeps this inn now, is my son-in-law: he is gone to Lancaster this morning."
The pedler said that was a pity, he should have liked to see his namesake, and drink a glass with him.
"Come again to-morrow," said Harry Vint, ironically. "Dame," he cried, "come hither. Here's another Thomas Leicester for ye, wants to see our one."
Mrs. Vint turned her head, and inspected the pedler from afar, as if he was some natural curiosity.
"Where do you come from, young man?" said she.
"Well, I came from Kendal last; but I am Cumberland born."
"Why, that is where t'other comes from," suggested Paul Carrick, who was once more a frequenter of the house.
"Like enow," said Mrs. Vint.
With that she dropped the matter as one of no consequence, and retired. But she went straight to Mercy, in the parlor, and told her there was a man in the kitchen that called himself Thomas Leicester.
"Well, mother?" said Mercy, with high indifference, for she was trying new socks on King Baby.
"He comes from Cumberland."
"Well, to be sure, names do run in counties."
"That is true; but, seems to me, he favors your man: much of a height, and—There, do just step into the kitchen a moment."
"La, mother," said Mercy, "I don't desire to see any more Thomas Leicesters than my own: 'tis the man, not the name. Isn't it, my lamb?"
Mrs. Vint went back to the kitchen discomfited; but, with quiet pertinacity, she brought Thomas Leicester into the parlor, pack and all.
"There, Mercy," said she, "lay out a penny with thy husband's namesake."
Mercy did not reply, for at that moment Thomas Leicester caught sight of Griffith's portrait, and gave a sudden start, and a most extraordinary look besides.
Both the women's eyes happened to be upon him, and they saw at once that he knew the original.
"You know my husband?" said Mercy Vint, after a while.
"Not I," said Leicester, looking askant at the picture.
"Don't tell no lies," said Mrs. Vint. "You do know him well." And she pointed her assertion by looking at the portrait.
"O, I know him whose picture hangs there, of course," said Leicester.
"Well, and that is her husband."
"O, that is her husband, is it?" And he was unaffectedly puzzled.
Mercy turned pale. "Yes, he is my husband," said she, "and this is our child. Can you tell me anything about him? for he came a stranger to these parts. Belike you are a kinsman of his?"
"So they say."
This reply puzzled both women.
"Any way," said the pedler, "you see we are marked alike." And he showed a long black mole on his forehead.
Mercy was now as curious as she had been indifferent. "Tell me all about him," said she: "how comes it that he is a gentleman and thou a pedler?"
"Well, because my mother was a gypsy, and his a gentlewoman."
"What brought him to these parts?"
"Trouble, they say."
"What trouble?"
"Nay, I know not." This after a slight but visible hesitation.
"But you have heard say."
"Well, I am always on the foot, and don't bide long enough in one place to learn all the gossip. But I do remember hearing he was gone to sea: and that was a lie, for he had settled here, and married you. I'fackins, he might have done worse. He has got a bonny buxom wife, and a rare fine boy, to be sure."
And now the pedler was on his guard, and determined he would not be the one to break up the household he saw before him, and afflict the dove-
