At this very unpleasant sight Pen seemed to recover her wits, and said: “Go away, go away! Oh, brother, brother, now I know you have stolen her money and killed her, and--and I loved you, I was so proud of you! Oh, oh!” This was all very fine, but the advice was good. I said: “Yes, I had better go. Run and get some one--a doctor. It is a fit of hysterics; there is no danger. I will write to you. You are quite mistaken.” This was too feeble even for Pen, and she cried: “No, never; I never want to see you again. You would kill me next.” “Stuff!” said I, and ran down-stairs. I seized my coat and hat, and went to the tavern, where I got a man to drive me to Camden. I have never seen Pen since. As I crossed the ferry to Philadelphia I saw that I should have asked when the detective had been after me. I suspected from Pen’s terror that it had been recently. It was Sunday and, as I reminded myself, the day before Christmas. The ground was covered with snow, and as I walked up Market street my feet were soon soaked. In my haste I had left my overshoes. I was very cold, and, as I now see, foolishly fearful. I kept thinking of what a conspicuous thing a fire-red head is, and of how many people knew me. As I reached Woodbury early and without a cent, I had eaten nothing all day. I relied on Pen. Now I concluded to go down into my old neighborhood and get a lodging where no references were asked. Next day I would secure a disguise and get out of the way. I had passed the day without food, as I have just said, and having ample means, concluded to go somewhere and get a good dinner. It was now close to three in the afternoon. I was aware of two things: that I was making many plans, and giving them up as soon as made; and that I was suddenly afraid without cause, afraid to enter an eating-house, and in fear of every man I met.