“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!”

“Poor soul! her senses are going again,” said Mr. Wood, terrified by the wildness of her looks.  “I was afraid it would be so.”

“Only three days,” reiterated the widow, “three short short days,—­and then all is over.  Jonathan’s wicked threat is fulfilled at last.  The gallows is in view—­I see it with all its hideous apparatus!—­ough!” and shuddering violently, she placed her hands before her, as if to exclude some frightful vision from her sight.

“Do not despair, my sweet soul,” said Wood, in a soothing tone.

“Do not despair!” echoed Mrs. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—­“Do not despair!  And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone?  I have wept till my eyes are dry,—­suffered till my heart is broken,—­prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—­and all of no avail.  He will be hanged—­hanged—­hanged.  Ha! ha!  What have I left but despair and madness?  Promise me one thing, Mr. Wood,” she continued, with a sudden change of tone, and convulsively clutching the carpenter’s arm, “promise it me.”

“Anything, my dear,” replied Wood, “What is it?”

“Bury us together in one grave in Willesden churchyard.  There is a small yew-tree west of the church.  Beneath that tree let us lie.  In one grave, mind.  Do you promise to do this?”

“Solemnly,” rejoined the carpenter.

“Enough,” said the widow, gratefully.  “I must see him to-night.”

“Impossible, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” said Thames.  “To-morrow I will take you to him.”

“To-morrow will be too late,” replied the widow, in a hollow voice, “I feel it will.  I must go to-night, or I shall never behold him again.  I must bless him before I die.  I have strength enough to drag myself there, and I do not want to return.”

“Be pacified, sweet soul,” said Wood, looking meaningly at Thames; “you shall go, and I will accompany you.”

“A mother’s blessing on you,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, fervently.  “And now,” she added, with somewhat more composure, “leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—­to prepare myself for what I have to go through—­to pray for my son.”