“It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I care not,” retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused into sudden eloquence. “To those who, like me, have never been able to get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. The spirit I drink may be poison,--it may kill me,--perhaps it _is_ killing me:--but so would hunger, cold, misery,--so would my own thoughts. I should have gone mad without it. Gin is the poor man's friend,--his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,--when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,--or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,--when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,--as happy as I am now.” And she burst into a wild hysterical laugh. “Poor creature!” ejaculated Wood. “Do you call this frantic glee happiness?” “It's all the happiness I have known for years,” returned the widow, becoming suddenly calm, “and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive. I tell you what, Mr. Wood,” added she in a hollow voice, and with a ghastly look, “gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and ill-usage exist, it will be drunk.” “God forbid!” exclaimed Wood, fervently; and, as if afraid of prolonging the interview, he added, with some precipitation, “But I must be going: I've stayed here too long already. You shall hear from me to-morrow.” “Stay!” said Mrs. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. “I've just recollected that my husband left a key with me, which he charged me to give you when I could find an opportunity.” “A key!” exclaimed Wood eagerly. “I lost a very valuable one some time ago. What's it like, Joan?” “It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards.” “It's mine, I'll be sworn,” rejoined Wood. “Well, who'd have thought of finding it in this unexpected way!” “Don't be too sure till you see it,” said the widow. “Shall I fetch it for you, Sir?” “By all means.” “I must trouble you to hold the child, then, for a minute, while I run up to the garret, where I've hidden it for safety,” said Mrs. Sheppard. “I think I _may_ trust him with you, Sir,” added she, taking up the candle.