Many times I caught her, and many times she turned upon me, and then I could not look at her, but asked how long to dinner-time.
Now in the depth of the winter month, such as we call December, father being dead and quiet in his grave a fortnight, it happened me to be out of powder for practice against his enemies.

I had never fired a shot without thinking, 'This for father's murderer'; and John Fry said that I made such faces it was a wonder the gun went off.

But though I could hardly hold the gun, unless with my back against a bar, it did me good to hear it go off, and hope to have hitten his enemies.
'Oh, mother, mother,' I said that day, directly after dinner, while she was sitting looking at me, and almost ready to say (as now she did seven times in a week), 'How like your father you are growing! Jack, come here and kiss me'-- 'oh, mother, if you only knew how much I want a shilling!' 'Jack, you shall never want a shilling while I am alive to give thee one.

But what is it for, dear heart, dear heart ?' 'To buy something over at Porlock, mother.

Perhaps I will tell you afterwards.