I'm relating a dream, you know.

He stands it on end then in this closet into which nobody is supposed to go but the Curator _and_ the scrubwoman, and there he leaves it, possibly as yet with no definite intention.

How long it stood there I cannot say.

It was well hidden, it seems, by something or other hanging over it.

Nor am I altogether sure that it might not be standing there yet if the impulse swaying X had not been strengthened by seeing daily over his head a quiver full of arrows admirably fitted for this bow.