“I expect no commiseration,” returned Mrs. Sheppard, gently, “nor do I need any.  But, rather than be the cause of any further misunderstanding between you and my benefactor, I will leave London and its neighbourhood for ever.”

“Pray do so, Madam,” retorted Mrs. Wood, “and take your son with you.”

“My son!” echoed the widow, trembling.

“Yes, your son, Madam.  If you can do any good with him, it’s more than we can.  The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold.”

“Is this true, Sir?” cried Mrs. Sheppard, with an agonized look at Wood.  “I know you’ll not deceive me.  Is Jack what Mrs. Wood represents him?”

“He’s not exactly what I could desire him to be, Joan,” replied the carpenter, reluctantly, “But a ragged colt sometimes makes the best horse.  He’ll mend, I hope.”

“Never,” said Mrs. Wood,—­“he’ll never mend.  He has taken more than one step towards the gallows already.  Thieves and pickpockets are his constant companions.”

“Thieves!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, horror-stricken.

“Jonathan Wild and Blueskin have got him into their hands,” continued Mrs. Wood.

“Impossible!” exclaimed the widow, wildly.

“If you doubt my word, woman,” replied the carpenter’s wife, coldly, “ask Mr. Wood.”

“I know you’ll contradict it, Sir,” said the widow, looking at Wood as if she dreaded to have her fears confirmed,—­“I know you will.”

“I wish I could, Joan,” returned the carpenter, sadly.

Mrs. Sheppard let fall her basket.

“My son,” she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—­, “my son the companion of thieves!  My son in Jonathan Wild’s power!  It cannot be.”

“Why not?” rejoined Mrs. Wood, in a taunting tone.  “Your son’s father was a thief; and Jonathan Wild (unless I’m misinformed,) was his friend,—­so it’s not unnatural he should show some partiality towards Jack.”

“Jonathan Wild was my husband’s bitterest enemy,” said Mrs. Sheppard.  “He first seduced him from the paths of honesty, and then betrayed him to a shameful death, and he has sworn to do the same thing by my son.  Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!”

“Compose yourself, Joan,” said Wood; “all will yet be well.”

“Oh, no,—­no,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, distractedly.  “All cannot be well, if this is true.  Tell me, Sir,” she added, with forced calmness, and grasping Wood’s arm; “what has Jack done?  Tell me in a word, that I may know the worst.  I can bear anything but suspense.”

“You’re agitating yourself unnecessarily, Joan,” returned Wood, in a soothing voice.  “Jack has been keeping bad company.  That’s the only fault I know of.”

“Thank God for that!” ejaculated Mrs. Sheppard, fervently.  “Then it is not too late to save him.  Where is he, Sir?  Can I see him?”