After a little while, when John had fired away at a rat the charge I held so sacred, it came to me as a natural thing to practise shooting with that great gun, instead of John Fry’s blunderbuss, which looked like a bell with a stalk to it.  Perhaps for a boy there is nothing better than a good windmill to shoot at, as I have seen them in flat countries; but we have no windmills upon the great moorland, yet here and there a few barn-doors, where shelter is, and a way up the hollows.  And up those hollows you can shoot, with the help of the sides to lead your aim, and there is a fair chance of hitting the door, if you lay your cheek to the barrel, and try not to be afraid of it.

[Illustration:  045.jpg Won skill in target practice]

Gradually I won such skill, that I sent nearly all the lead gutter from the north porch of our little church through our best barn-door, a thing which has often repented me since, especially as churchwarden, and made me pardon many bad boys; but father was not buried on that side of the church.

But all this time, while I was roving over the hills or about the farm, and even listening to John Fry, my mother, being so much older and feeling trouble longer, went about inside the house, or among the maids and fowls, not caring to talk to the best of them, except when she broke out sometimes about the good master they had lost, all and every one of us.  But the fowls would take no notice of it, except to cluck for barley; and the maidens, though they had liked him well, were thinking of their sweethearts as the spring came on.  Mother thought it wrong of them, selfish and ungrateful; and yet sometimes she was proud that none had such call as herself to grieve for him.  Only Annie seemed to go softly in and out, and cry, with nobody along of her, chiefly in the corner where the bees are and the grindstone.  But somehow she would never let anybody behold her; being set, as you may say, to think it over by herself, and season it with weeping.  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?”