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      As she said this, she drew a little aside, while Mrs. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever.

      “Where am I?” she cried, passing her hand across her brow.

      “With your friends, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” replied Winifred, advancing.

      “Ah! you are there, my dear young lady,” said the widow, smiling faintly; “when I first waken, I’m always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum.”

      “You need never be afraid of that,” returned Winifred, affectionately; “my father will take care you never leave him more.”

      “Oh! how much I owe him!” said the widow, with fervour, “for bringing me here, and removing me from those dreadful sights and sounds, that would have driven me distracted, even if I had been in my right mind. And how much I owe you, too, dearest Winifred, for your kindness and attention. Without you I should never have recovered either health or reason. I can never be grateful enough. But, though I cannot reward you, Heaven will.”

      “Don’t say anything about it, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” rejoined Winifred, controlling her emotion, and speaking as cheerfully as she could; “I would do anything in the world for you, and so would my father, and so would Thames; but he ought, for he’s your nephew, you know. We all love you dearly.”

      “Bless you! bless you!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, averting her face to hide her tears.

      “I mustn’t tell you what Thames means to do for you if ever he gains his rights,” continued Winifred; “but I may tell you what my father means to do.”

      “He has done too much already,” answered the widow. “I shall need little more.”

      “But, do hear what it is,” rejoined Winifred; “you know I’m shortly to be united to your nephew — that is,” she added, blushing, “when he can be married by his right name, for my father won’t consent to it before.”

      “Your father will never oppose your happiness, my dear, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Sheppard; “but, what has this to do with me?”

      “You shall hear,” replied Winifred; “when this marriage takes place, you and I shall be closely allied, but my father wishes for a still closer alliance.”

      “I don’t unterstand you,” returned Mrs. Sheppard.

      “To be plain, then,” said Winifred, “he has asked me whether I have any objection to you as a mother.”

      “And what — what was your answer?” demanded the widow, eagerly.

      “Can’t you guess?” returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. “That he couldn’t choose any one so agreeable to me.”

      “Winifred,” said Mrs. Sheppard, after a brief pause, during which she appeared overcome by her feelings — she said, gently disengaging herself from the young girl’s embrace, and speaking in a firm voice, “you must dissuade your father from this step.”

      “How?” exclaimed the other. “Can you not love him?”

      “Love him!” echoed the widow. “The feeling is dead within my breast. My only love is for my poor lost son. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved — that I cannot do.”

      “Your esteem is all he will require,” urged Winifred.

      “He has it, and will ever have it,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, passionately — “he has my boundless gratitude, and devotion. But I am not worthy to be any man’s wife — far less his wife. Winifred, you are deceived in me. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained. But the offences I have committed are venial in comparison with what I should commit were I to wed your father. No — no, it must never be.”

      “You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” rejoined Winifred kindly. “Your faults were the faults of circumstances.”

      “Palliate them as you may,” replied the widow, gravely, “they were faults; and as such, cannot be repaired by a greater wrong. If you love me, do not allude to this subject again.”

      “I’m sorry I mentioned it at all, since it distresses you,” returned Winifred; “but, as I knew my father intended to propose to you, if poor Jack should be respited —”

      “If he should be respited?” repeated Mrs. Sheppard, with startling eagerness. “Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!”

      Winifred made no answer.

      “Your hesitation convinces me he does,” replied the widow. “Is Thames returned from London?”

      “Not yet,” replied the other; “but I expect him every minute. My father’s chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild.”

      “That fiend is ever in my path,” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, with a look, the wildness of which greatly alarmed her companion. “I cannot scare him thence.”

      “Hark!” cried Winifred, “Thames is arrived. I hear the sound of his horse’s feet in the yard. Now you will learn the result.”

      “Heaven support me!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, faintly.

      “Breathe at this phial,” said Winifred.

      Shortly afterwards — it seemed an age to the anxious mother — Mr. Wood entered the room, followed by Thames. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion — partly, perhaps, from both causes — and wore his left arm in a sling.

      “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,

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