“He has it, and will ever have it,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, passionately,--“he has my boundless gratitude, and devotion. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife--far less _his_ wife. Winifred, you are deceived in me. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. But the offences I _have_ committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father. No--no, it must never be.” “You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” rejoined Winifred kindly. “Your faults were the faults of circumstances.” “Palliate them as you may,” replied the widow, gravely, “they _were_ faults; and as such, cannot be repaired by a greater wrong. If you love me, do not allude to this subject again.” “I'm sorry I mentioned it at all, since it distresses you,” returned Winifred; “but, as I knew my father intended to propose to you, if poor Jack should be respited--” “_If_ he should be respited?” repeated Mrs. Sheppard, with startling eagerness. “Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!” Winifred made no answer. “Your hesitation convinces me he does,” replied the widow. “Is Thames returned from London?” “Not yet,” replied the other; “but I expect him every minute. My father's chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild.” “That fiend is ever in my path,” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, with a look, the wildness of which greatly alarmed her companion. “I cannot scare him thence.” “Hark!” cried Winifred, “Thames is arrived. I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. Now you will learn the result.” “Heaven support me!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, faintly. “Breathe at this phial,” said Winifred. Shortly afterwards,--it seemed an age to the anxious mother,--Mr. Wood entered the room, followed by Thames. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,--partly, perhaps, from both causes,--and wore his left arm in a sling. “Well!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, raising herself, and looking at him as if her life depended upon the answer. “He is respited?” “Alas! no,” replied Thames, sadly. “The warrant for his execution is arrived. There is no further hope.” “My poor son!” groaned the widow, sinking backwards. “Heaven have mercy on his soul!” ejaculated Wood. “Poor Jack!” cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. At length, she suddenly started to her feet; and before Winifred could prevent her, staggered up to Thames. “When is he to suffer?” she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. “On Friday,” he replied. “Friday!” echoed Mrs. Sheppard; “and to-day is Monday. He has three days to live. Only three days. Three short days. Horrible!”