True Protestant Gratitude, or,
Britain's Thanksgiving for the First of August, Being the Day of His
Majesty's Happy Accession to the Throne_.' Jack Sheppard's library
consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the
tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and
Holinsheds of crime--the Ordinaries of Newgate. His vocal collection
comprised a couple of flash songs pasted against the wall, entitled
'_The Thief-Catcher's Prophecy_,' and the '_Life and Death of the
Darkman's Budge_;' while his extraordinary mechanical skill was
displayed in what he termed (Jack had a supreme contempt for
orthography,) a '_Moddle of his Ma^{s}. Jale off Newgate_;' another
model of the pillory at Fleet Bridge; and a third of the permanent
gibbet at Tyburn. The latter specimen, of his workmanship was adorned
with a little scarecrow figure, intended to represent a housebreaking
chimney-sweeper of the time, described in Sheppard's own hand-writing,
as '_Jack Hall a-hanging_.' We must not omit to mention that a family
group from the pencil of little Winifred, representing Mr. and Mrs.
Wood in very characteristic attitudes, occupied a prominent place on the
walls.

For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the
half-opened door in silence. On a sudden, a change came over her
countenance, which, up to this moment, had worn a smiling and satisfied
expression. Throwing down the pencil, she snatched up a piece of
India-rubber, and exclaiming,--"It isn't at all like him! it isn't half
handsome enough!" was about to efface the sketch, when Thames darted
into the room.

"Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the
drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her
fingers.

"I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her
little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!"

"I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper
from her grasp.

"Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried.

But her request was unheeded. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out
its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.

"I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!" cried Winifred, with
difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; "you've acted unfairly."

"I feel I have, dear Winny!" replied Thames, abashed at his own
rudeness; "my conduct is inexcusable."

"I'll excuse it nevertheless," returned the little damsel,