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 as that over the chimney-piece.” “I'd good reasons for placing it there, Sir; but don't question me about them now, or you'll drive me mad,” returned Mrs. Sheppard wildly. “Well, well, we'll say no more about it,” replied Wood; “and, by way of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong waters for consolation, Joan. One nail drives out another, it's true; but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard.”