Westerfelt | Page 9

will suspicion the truth. You must never
mention it to a soul. It is my last and only request. It would go harder
with mother if she knew that. Good-bye, John. I love you more right
now than I ever did, and I don't know as I blame you much or harbor
much resentment. I thought I would not say anything more, but I cannot
help it. John, Lizzie is not the woman for you. She never will love you
deep, or very long. Good-bye.
"SALLY."
Westerfelt put the letter in his pocket and turned his horse into an
unfrequented road leading to the mountain and along its side. The air
was filled with the subtle fragrance of growing and blooming things.
He was as near insanity as a man can well be who still retains his
mental equipoise. In this slow manner, his horse picking his way over
fallen trees and mountain streams, he traversed several miles, and then,
in utter desolation, turned homeward.
It was noon when he came in sight of his house. Peter Slogan had
returned the horse, and, with a parcel under his arm, was trudging
homeward. All that night Westerfelt lay awake, and the next morning
he did not leave his room, ordering the wondering servant not to
prepare any breakfast for him. He did not want to show himself on the
veranda or in the front yard, thinking some neighbor might stop and
want to talk over the tragedy. There were moments during this solitary
morning that he wished others knew the secret of Sally Dawson's death.
It seemed impossible for him to keep the grewsome truth locked in his
breast--it made the happening seem more of a crime. And then an awful

thought dawned upon him. Was it not a way God had of punishing him,
and would there ever be any end to it?
From his window he had a clear view of Mrs. Dawson's house. There
was a group of people in their best clothes on the porch, and
considerable activity about the front yard, to the fence of which a
goodly number of horses and mules were hitched. The little church,
with its gray, weather-beaten spire, could also be seen farther away, on
a slight elevation. It had a fence around it, and blended with the
whiteness of the fence were a few gravestones.
About eleven o'clock Westerfelt saw a negro boy climb a ladder
leaning against the side of the church and creep along the edge of the
roof to the open cupola and grasp the clapper of the cast-iron bell. Then
it began to toll. The boy was an unpractised hand, and the strokes were
irregular, sometimes too slow and sometimes too rapid.
It was a signal for the procession to leave the house. Westerfelt's eyes
were glued to the one-horse wagon at the gate, for it contained the
coffin, and was moving like a thing alive. Behind it walked six men,
swinging their hats in their hands. Next followed Slogan's rickety
buggy with its threatening wheels, driven by Peter. The bent figure of
the widow in black sat beside him. Other vehicles fell in behind, and
men, women, and children on foot, carrying wild flowers, dogwood
blossoms, pink and white honeysuckle, and bunches of violets, brought
up the rear.
Westerfelt was just turning from the window, unable to stand the sight
longer, when he saw Abner Lithicum's new road-wagon, with its red
wheels and high green bed, in which sat the five women of his family,
pause at his gate. Going out on the veranda, Westerfelt saw Abner
coming up the walk, cracking his wagon-whip at the stunted
rose-bushes.
"Hello!" he cried out; "I 'lowed mebby you hadn't left yet. It 'll be a
good half-hour 'fore they all get thar an' settled. The preacher promised
me this mornin' he'd wait on me an' my folks. It takes my gals sech a'
eternity to fix up when they go anywhar."

"Won't you come in?" asked Westerfelt, coldly, seeing that Lithicum
did not seem to be in any hurry to announce the object of his visit.
"Oh no, thanky'," said Lithicum, with a broad grin; "the truth is, I clean
forgot my tobacco. I knowed you wasn't a chawin' man, but yore uncle
is, an' he mought have left a piece of a plug lyin' round. My old woman
tried to git me to use her snuff as a make-shift, but lawsy me! the
blamed powdery truck jest washes down my throat like leaves in a
mill-race. I never could see how women kin set an' rub an' rub the'r
gums with it like they do. I reckon it's jest a sort o' habit."
"I'm sorry," said Westerfelt, "but I don't know where my uncle keeps
his tobacco."
"Well,