“Don’t exchange glances with him under my very nose, woman!” shrieked Mrs. Wood; “I’ll not bear it.  Look at me, and answer me one question.  And, mind! no prevaricating—­nothing but the truth will satisfy me.”

Mrs. Sheppard raised her eyes, and fixed them upon her interrogator.

“Are you not that man’s mistress?” demanded Mrs. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust.

“I am no man’s mistress,” answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone.

“That’s false!” cried Mrs. Wood.  “I’m too well acquainted with your proceedings, Madam, to believe that.  Profligate women are never reclaimed. He has told me sufficient of you—­”

“My dear,” interposed Wood, “for goodness’ sake—­”

“I will speak,” screamed his wife, totally disregarding the interruption; “I will tell this worthless creature what I know about her,—­and what I think of her.”

“Not now, my love—­not now,” entreated Wood.

“Yes, now,” rejoined the infuriated dame; “perhaps, I may never have another opportunity.  She has contrived to keep out of my sight up to this time, and I’ve no doubt she’ll keep out of it altogether for the future.”

“That was my doing, dearest,” urged the carpenter; “I was afraid if you saw her that some such scene as this might occur.”

“Hear me, Madam, I beseech you,” interposed Mrs. Sheppard, “and, if it please you to visit your indignation on any one let it be upon me, and not on your excellent husband, whose only fault is in having bestowed his charity upon so unworthy an object as myself.”

“Unworthy, indeed!” sneered Mrs. Wood.

“To him I owe everything,” continued the widow, “life itself—­nay, more than life,—­for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul.  He has been a father to me and my child.”

“I never doubted the latter point, I assure you, Madam,” observed Mrs. Wood.

“You have said,” pursued the widow, “that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable.  Do not believe it, Madam.  It is not so.  The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy.  I have suffered—­I have sinned—­I have repented.  And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven.”

“Mighty fine!” ejaculated Mrs. Wood, contemptuously.