“Well, good night, Mr. Wood,” said she, in the deep, hoarse accents of consumption; “and may God Almighty bless and reward you for your kindness!  You were always the best of masters to my poor husband; and now you’ve proved the best of friends to his widow and orphan boy.”

“Poh! poh! say no more about it,” rejoined the man hastily.  “I’ve done no more than my duty, Mrs. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks.  ‘Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;’ that’s my comfort.  And such slight relief as I can afford should have been offered earlier, if I’d known where you’d taken refuge after your unfortunate husband’s—­”

“Execution, you would say, Sir,” added Mrs. Sheppard, with a deep sigh, perceiving that her benefactor hesitated to pronounce the word.  “You show more consideration to the feelings of a hempen widow, than there is any need to show.  I’m used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I’m not used to compassion, and know not how to take it.  My heart would speak if it could, for it is very full.  There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. Wood; but they never come now.  I have never wept since that day.”

“And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul,” replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, “unless it be tears of joy.  Pshaw!” added he, making an effort to subdue his emotion, “I can’t leave you in this way.  I must stay a minute longer, if only to see you smile.”

So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate.

The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look.  Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the boards of the floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare walls were scored all over with grotesque designs, the chief of which represented the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar.  The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal.  The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs.  Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire.  On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled “Rosa Solis.”  Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be said to be littered, which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor and filth.