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She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. What had actually beaten him was not to have known if someone had picked up his trail. . . It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. "Come to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!" To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction—to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one's imagination. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. "No, I shan't," replied Rachel, saucily. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley.
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