“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 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.”