"Mother Sheppard generally had a shakedown in the room at the side," he soliloquized. "If she’s as deaf as she used to be, there’s not much fear of disturbing her, even if I dance a hornpipe on the table. Anyway, there’s no doubt she’s a good sleeper, judging by the noise she makes over it. Sounds more like a concert of tin whistles and drums, than one old woman snoring!" The burglar peeped in at the half-open door, and by the light which came from the still flickering fire in the kitchen, he made out the humble couch whereon Mrs. Sheppard lay. "Wonder if she keeps her hoard under her pillow," he continued. "They say these skinflints usually do. Anyhow it’s worth a search, and I’ll hope for a bit of good fortune this time." He went up to the bed and gently inserted his hand beneath the bolster, on which reposed the aged head with its close-fitting nightcap and neat grey hair. "Nothing there!" he said. "Perhaps it’s under the mattress. I’ll have one more try, and then I’ll go." If a flash-light had been turned at that moment suddenly upon the scene, it would have disclosed the evil look of triumph which just then rested on the man’s face. With a sardonic grin he withdrew his arm, clutching in his hand a leather bag, tied tightly up with knotted string. Returning to the kitchen, he quietly let himself out by the back door, after having feasted royally upon goodly slices of the bread and ham which he found so conveniently ready to his use in the old dame’s cupboard. "Now, where are those two nice fat ducks I collared so cleverly before I went round to the front?" he said. "One of them nearly gave me away when I cotched it round the neck. I thought some one would be sure to hear its parting quack. I’ll be off with them and the rest of the swag to Westmarket, before the sun is up, and amuse myself there for a few days, before coming back here to pay my respects to the old man. No one saw me to-night, and if I turn up like a good innocent prodigal son in a week’s time, not a soul will connect me with this neat little job." It would indeed be difficult to decide which of the three inhabitants of the cottage was most distressed when the morning revealed to them their loss. Poor old Mrs. Sheppard sat rocking herself to and fro in her chair by the kitchen fire, her hands over her face, and the tears streaming down her shrivelled cheeks. "It’s all my little savin’s as have gone," she moaned, "every mortal halfpenny as I’ve worked so hard to put by. There’s naught to keep me out of the workhouse now--not even enough to bury me, if so be as I die of a broken heart to-night."