hrown a squalid, patchwork
counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair
of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last
century, and some other articles of female attire. On a small shelf near
the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and
basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a
spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask,
labelled "_Rosa Solis_." Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be
said to be littered, which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor
and filth.

Over the chimney-piece was pasted a handbill, purporting to be "_The
last Dying Speech and Confession of_ TOM SHEPPARD, _the Notorious
Housebreaker, who suffered at Tyburn on the 25th of February, 1703._"
This placard was adorned with a rude wood-cut, representing the unhappy
malefactor at the place of execution. On one side of the handbill a
print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait
of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig,
were just visible above the diadem of the queen. On the other a wretched
engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the
label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that
the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of
Jacobitism.

Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall,
formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the
words, "_Paul Groves, cobler;_" and under the name, traced in charcoal,
appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "_Hung himsel
in this rum for luv off licker;_" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the
unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. A farthing candle, stuck in a
bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the
provident kindness of Mr. Wood, was much better furnished with eatables
than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a
meat-pie, and a flask of wine.

"You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Sheppard," said Wood, glancing round
the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame.

"It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as
it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets."

"Of course--of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than
that. But take a drop of wine," urged he, filling a dr