love, and how much more dear to
me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for him,--if you
were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than reproach me,
because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I feel would
break my heart. But give me till to-morrow--only till to-morrow--I may
be able to part with him then."

The worthy carpenter was now far more angry with himself than he had
previously been with Mrs. Sheppard; and, as soon as he could command his
feelings, which were considerably excited by the mention of her
distresses, he squeezed her hand warmly, bestowed a hearty execration
upon his own inhumanity, and swore he would neither separate her from
her child, nor suffer any one else to separate them.

"Plague on't!" added he: "I never meant to take your babby from you. But
I'd a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you pretended.
I was to blame to carry the matter so far. However, confession of a
fault makes half amends for it. A time _may_ come when this little chap
will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in
Owen Wood."

As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object of
his benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally aroused
him from his slumbers. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child
fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light,
uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled
by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms,
as if imploring protection.

"I don't think he would leave me, even if I could part with him,"
observed Mrs. Sheppard, smiling through her tears.

"I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. "No friend like the
mother, for the babby knows no other."

"And that's true," rejoined Mrs. Sheppard; "for if I had _not_ been a
mother, I would not have survived the day on which I became a widow."

"You mustn't think of that, Mrs. Sheppard," said Wood in a soothing
tone.

"I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. "I can never get
poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at
Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to
stupify myself somehow. The dismal tolling of St. Sepulchre's bell is
for ever ringing in my ears--oh!"

"If that's the case," observed Wood, "I'm surprised you should like to
have such a frightful picture constantly in view a