No sooner did Mrs. Jones enter the circle than she was surrounded by the
gazing throng. The infant was dressed with peculiar neatness, and
nothing mortal could appear more lovely. A thousand and a thousand
blessings were heaped upon the "heiress of Tregunter," for so they
fancifully called her; a thousand times did they declare that the baby
was the very image of her father. Mrs. Jones returned to me; every word
she uttered soothed my heart; a sweet and grateful glow, for the first
time, bespoke the indescribable gratification which a fond parent feels
in hearing the praises of a beloved offspring. Yet this little absence
appeared an age; a variety of fears presented dangers in a variety of
shapes, and the object of all my care, of all my affection, was now
pressed closer to my heart than ever.

Amidst these sweet and never-to-be-forgotten sensations, Mr. Harris
entered my chamber. He abruptly inquired how I found myself, and,
seating himself by the side of my bed, began to converse family affairs.
I was too feeble to say much; and he had not the delicacy to consider
that Mrs. Jones, my nurse, and almost a stranger to me, was a witness to
our conversation.

"Well!" said Mr. Harris, "and what do you mean to do with your child?"

I made no answer.

"I will tell you," added he. "Tie it to your back and work for it."

I shivered with horror.

"Prison doors are open," continued Mr. Harris. "Tom will die in a gaol;