Over the chimney-piece was pasted a handbill, purporting to be “The last Dying Speech and Confession of Tom Sheppard, the Notorious Housebreaker, who suffered at Tyburn on the 25th of February, 1703.” This placard was adorned with a rude wood-cut, representing the unhappy malefactor at the place of execution.  On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen.  On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism.

Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, “Paul Groves, cobler;” and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow’s fate, “Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;” accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam.  A farthing candle, stuck in a bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the provident kindness of Mr. Wood, was much better furnished with eatables than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a meat-pie, and a flask of wine.

“You’ve but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Sheppard,” said Wood, glancing round the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame.

“It’s wretched enough, indeed, Sir,” rejoined the widow; “but, poor as it is, it’s better than the cold stones and open streets.”

“Of course—­of course,” returned Wood, hastily; “anything’s better than that.  But take a drop of wine,” urged he, filling a drinking-horn and presenting it to her; “it’s choice canary, and’ll do you good.  And now, come and sit by me, my dear, and let’s have a little quiet chat together.  When things are at the worst, they’ll mend.  Take my word for it, your troubles are over.”

“I hope they are, Sir,” answered Mrs. Sheppard, with a faint smile and a doubtful shake of the head, as Wood drew her to a seat beside him, “for I’ve had my full share of misery.  But I don’t look for peace on this side the grave.”

“Nonsense!” cried Wood; “while there’s life there’s hope.  Never be down-hearted.  Besides,” added he, opening the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly, but placid features, “it’s sinful to repine while you’ve a child like this to comfort you.  Lord help him! he’s the very image of his father.  Like carpenter, like chips.”