right in my mouth—felt like. There was the Springfield; I spied it in the corner, waiting for him.
"My mother was lying down up in the loft. She was always lying down those days when she got the chance. She'd been lying down up there most all day. I was glad she wasn't around. I went into the pantry, quietly as I could, with my plate of fish, and stood, staring out through a crack. My stepfather was whistling to himself, hardly conscious I'd come in, I guess. It was tense, I can tell you, when he picked up his rifle, ran his practiced eye over it, brushed its smooth shaft with two fingers, and then glanced at the trigger. He had the rifle hugged up to him close, and was whistling softly when he pulled that trigger; but the muzzle was not pointed towards any part of my stepfather. It was pointed towards the steep flight of stairs that went up the loft. The shot went off with a terrible report, and my stepfather let go the thing as if he had been struck, and swore, and let it drop to the floor with a crash. I came out of the closet. I had no idea what had happened till I looked over to the stairs where my stepfather was staring. Then I saw! Then I saw, miss!
"She was struck in the side as she came down the stairs. She was in her stocking-feet, and my stepfather didn't hear her, you see. It wasn't his murder. I guess she died right off. Anyway, she wasn't able to say good-by to me, nor smile, nor anything like that." He paused. "My mother looked very pretty when the undertaker finished with her," he went on finally. "There was a kind of peaceful expression. She looked as if she wasn't feeling sick a bit any more.
