"Well, Joan," said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at her
steadfastly for a few moments, "what say you?--silence gives consent,
eh?"

Mrs. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by
emotion.

"Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between
jest and earnest.

"I cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears;
"indeed, indeed, I cannot."

"So I've found out the way to move her," thought the carpenter; "those
tears will do her some good, at all events. Not part with him!" added he
aloud. "Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his good fortune sure_ly_?
I'll be a second father to him, I tell you. Remember what the conjuror
said."

"I _do_ remember it, Sir," replied Mrs. Sheppard, "and am most grateful
for your offer. But I dare not accept it."

"Dare not!" echoed the carpenter; "I don't understand you, Joan."

"I mean to say, Sir," answered Mrs. Sheppard in a troubled voice, "that
if I lost my child, I should lose all I have left in the world. I have
neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband--I have only
_him_."

"If I ask you to part with him, my good woman, it's to better his
condition, I suppose, ain't it?" rejoined Wood angrily; for, though he
had no serious intention of carrying his proposal into effect, he was
rather offended at having it declined. "It's not an offer," continued
he, "that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive every day in
the year."

And muttering some remarks, which we do not care to repeat, reflecting
upon the consistency of the sex, he was preparing once more to depart,
when Mrs. Sheppard stopped him.

"Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I _can_ bring myself to
part with him, you shall have him without another word."

"Take time to consider of it," replied Wood sulkily, "there's no hurry."

"Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray
don't. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you
what hardships I have undergone--to what frightful extremities I have
been reduced--and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty
subsistence for this child's sake,--if you could feel what it is to
stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me,
and shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the
wretched,--if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the
knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens