"Then where do surgeons get corpses from, sir?"
"From the hulks, the prisons, and the workhouses," was the answer.
"What! poor creatures which goes to the workus!" cried Mrs. Smith, revolting at the idea.
"Yes—ma'am; but the surgeons don't like them as subjects, because they're nothing but skin and bone."
"Well, for my part," exclaimed the widow, wiping away a tear, "I think it's wery hard if, after paying rates and taxes for a many—many year, I should be obleeged to go to the workus, and then be cut up in a surgeon's slaughter-house at last."
"Ah! my dear ma'am, these are sad times—very sad times," said the sanctified gentleman. "But a woman who does her duty to her fellow creatures as you do, need fear nothing; heaven will protect you!"
With these words the holy man rose from his seat, and prepared to depart.
"I hope Mr. Banks has engaged you to perform the service over my poor deceased lodger, sir?" said the widow, as she conducted him to the door.
"He has, ma'am," was the reply; and the reverend minister took his leave of Mrs. Smith, from whose mind a considerable load was removed by the suggestion she had received relative to the disposal of the money of her defunct lodger—a suggestion which she now determined to follow to the very letter.
In the mean time the Rattlesnake had been left alone at the mysterious dwelling which she and her terrible paramour inhabited.