“Of course--of course,” returned Wood, hastily; “anything's better than that. But take a drop of wine,” urged he, filling a drinking-horn and presenting it to her; “it's choice canary, and'll do you good. And now, come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat together. When things are at the worst, they'll mend. Take my word for it, your troubles are over.” “I hope they are, Sir,” answered Mrs. Sheppard, with a faint smile and a doubtful shake of the head, as Wood drew her to a seat beside him, “for I've had my full share of misery. But I don't look for peace on this side the grave.” “Nonsense!” cried Wood; “while there's life there's hope. Never be down-hearted. Besides,” added he, opening the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly, but placid features, “it's sinful to repine while you've a child like this to comfort you. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father. Like carpenter, like chips.” “That likeness is the chief cause of my misery,” replied the widow, shuddering. “Were it not for that, he would indeed be a blessing and a comfort to me. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to his father,--when I think of that father's shameful ending, and recollect how free from guilt _he_ once was,--at such times, Mr. Wood, despair will come over me; and, dear as this babe is to me, far dearer than my own wretched life, which I would lay down for him any minute, I have prayed to Heaven to remove him, rather than he should grow up to be a man, and be exposed to his father's temptations--rather than he should live as wickedly and die as disgracefully as his father. And, when I have seen him pining away before my eyes, getting thinner and thinner every day, I have sometimes thought my prayers were heard.” “Marriage and hanging go by destiny,” observed Wood, after a pause; “but I trust your child is reserved for a better fate than either, Mrs. Sheppard.” The latter part of this speech was delivered with so much significance of manner, that a bystander might have inferred that Mr. Wood was not particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections. “Goodness only knows what he's reserved for,” rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; “but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed.” “Save us!” exclaimed Wood. “And who is this Van Gal--Gal--what's his outlandish name?”