Since then he had passed through many weary weeks, sometimes of acute
pain, sometimes of sinking weakness, during which he had been haunted by
many secret torments, springing mainly from the fear of death. He had
almost been driven to make his will. But in the end superstitious
reluctance prevailed. He had not made the will; and to dwell on the fact
gave him the sensation of having escaped a bond, if not a danger. He did
not want to leave his money behind him; he wanted to spend it, as he had
told Eliza and Mary Anne and Bessie scores of times. To have assigned it
to any one else, even after his death, would have made it less his own.

Ah, well! those bad weeks were done, and here he was, at home again.
Suddenly, as he tramped on, he caught sight against the hill of Bessie's
cottage, the blue smoke from it blown across the rime-laden trees behind
it. He drew in his breath with a deep, tremulous delight. That buoyant
self-congratulation indeed which had stood between him and the pain of
Eliza's death was gone. Rather there was in him a profound yearning for
rest, for long dreaming by the fire or in the sun, with his pipe to
smoke, and Jim's Louisa to look after him, and nothing to do but to draw
a half-crown from his box when he wanted it. No more hard work in rain
and cold; and no cringing, either, to the young and prosperous for the
mere fault of age. The snowy valley with its circling woods opened to
him like a mother's breast; the sight of it filled him with a hundred
simple hopes and consolations; he hurried to bury himself in it, and be
at peace.

He was within a hundred yards of the first house in the village, when he
saw a tall figure in uniform approaching, and recognised Watson.

At sight of him the policeman stopped short, and John was conscious of a