"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. "I am—I am!" cried the widow, snatching the babe, and pressing it to her breast with rapturous delight "God be thanked, I have found it!" "We have both good reason to be grateful," added the lady, with great emotion. ‘You do not dare look in my clothes. I have worn it for weeks and weeks. .
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