comed you by it? He sets great store on it. Is he bound for th'
shooting-gallery? He is not, for sure, now his aunt is so ill, and
me left all alone"; and the immediate cause of her anxiety being
thus recalled to her mind, she entered on a long story of Alice's
illness, interspersed with recollections of her husband's and her
children's deaths.

The disguised policeman listened for a minute or two, to glean any
further information he could; and then, saying he was in a hurry, he
turned to go away. She followed him to the door, still telling him
her troubles, and was never struck, until it was too late to ask the
reason, with the unaccountableness of his conduct, in carrying the
gun away with him. Then, as she heavily climbed the stairs, she put
away the wonder and the thought about his conduct, by determining to
believe he was some workman with whom her son had made some
arrangement about shooting at the gallery; or mending the old
weapon; or something or other. She had enough to fret her, without
moidering herself about old guns. Jem had given it to him to bring
it to her; so it was safe enough; or, if it was not, why she should
be glad never to set eyes on it again, for she could not abide
firearms, they were so apt to shoot people.

So, comforting herself for the want of thought in not making further
inquiry, she fell off into another dose, feverish, dream-haunted,
and unrefreshing.

Meanwhile, the policeman walked off with his prize, with an odd
mixture of feelings; a little contempt, a little disappointment, and
a good deal of pity. The contempt and the disappointment were
caused by the widow's easy admission of the gun being her son's