Westerfelt | Page 8

she mention any names?" questioned the young man, desperately;
and while he waited for Slogan to speak a look of inexpressible agony
lay in his eyes.
"I never was much of a hand to tote tales," said Slogan, "but I may as
well give you a little bit of advice as to how you ort to act with the ol'
woman while she is so wrought up. I wouldn't run up agin 'er right now
ef I was you. She's tuck a funny sort o' notion that she don't want you at
the funeral or the buryin'. She told me three times, as I was startin' off,
to tell you not to come to the church nur to the grave. She was clean out
o' her senses, an' under ordinary circumstances I'd say not to pay a bit
of attention to 'er, but she's so upset she might liter'ly pounce on you
like a wild-cat at the meetin'-house."
"Tell her, for me, that I shall respect her wish," said Westerfelt. "I shall
not be there, Slogan. If she will let you do so, tell her I am sorry her
daughter is--dead."
"All right, John, I'll do what I can to pacify 'er," promised Peter, as he
took the switch Westerfelt handed him and started away.
Chapter III
When Slogan had ridden off through the mild spring sunshine,
Westerfelt saddled another horse and rode out of the gate towards the
road leading away from the house containing Sally Dawson's remains.
He hardly had any definite idea of whither he was going. He had only a
vague impression that the movement of a horse under him would to

some degree assuage the awful pain at his heart, but he was mistaken;
the pangs of self-accusation were as sharp as if he were a justly
condemned murderer. His way led past the cross-roads store, which
contained the post-office. Two men, a woman, and a child stood
huddled together at the door. They were talking about the accident;
Westerfelt knew that by their attitudes of awed attention and their
occasional glances towards Mrs. Dawson's. He was about to pass by
when the storekeeper signalled to him and called out:
"Mail fer you, Mr. Westerfelt; want me to fetch it out?"
Westerfelt nodded, and reined in and waited till the storekeeper came
out with a packet. "It must 'a' been drapped in after I closed last night,"
he said. "Thar wasn't a thing in the box 'fore I went home, an' it was the
only one thar when I unlocked this mornin'. Mighty bad news down the
creek, ain't it?" he ended. "Powerful hard on the old woman. They say
she's mighty nigh distracted."
Making some unintelligible reply, Westerfelt rode on, the packet held
tightly in his hand. It was addressed in Sally Dawson's round, girlish
handwriting, and he knew it contained his letters, and perhaps--he
shuddered at the thought of what else it might contain.
He whipped his horse into a gallop. He wanted to reach a spot where he
could open the package unobserved. He met several wagons and a
buggy. They contained people who bowed and spoke to him, but he
scarcely saw them. At the first path leading from the road into the wood
he turned aside, and then opened his package. There were three or four
letters and notes he had written the dead girl, and one blotted sheet
from her. With a quaking soul he read it. It confirmed him in the fear
which had taken hold of him at the first news of the tragedy. The letter
ran:
"DEAR JOHN,--I simply cannot stand it any longer. It is now about
three in the morning. Some people contend that such acts are done only
by crazy folks, but I don't believe I ever was more sensible than I am
right now. I am not ashamed to own that I had my heart and soul set on
being your wife and making you happy, but now that I know you didn't

feel a bit like I did, an' love Lizzie, I jest can't stand it. The pain is
awful--awful. I could not meet folks face to face, now that they know
the truth. I'd rather die a hundred deaths than see you an' her even once
together. I couldn't live long anyway. I'm simply too weak and sick at
heart. The hardest thing of all is to remember that you never did care
for me all the time I was making such a little fool of myself. I know
you never did. Folks said you was changeable, but I never once
believed it till last night on the road. I have fixed it so everybody will
think my death was accidental. I've been warned time and again about
that foot-log, and nobody