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. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. She sings better perhaps. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life.
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