r dreamt she was feeling that way. I've just got to make it
lighter for her. To begin with, I'll never put my foot inside of
Lithicum's gate, and I'll go over there this morning and try to make
her see what a worthless scamp I really am. I wonder if I couldn't
marry her--but, no, that wouldn't be right to her nor to me, for a man
hasn't the moral right to marry a woman he doesn't really love, even if
she thinks he is the only man on earth. I wonder if I really told her
I loved her?" Here Westerfelt shuddered, and felt a flush of shame
steal over his face. "Yes, I have--I have," he muttered, "and I reckon
I really did fancy I cared for her at the time. Yes, I have been a
contemptible coward; for my own idle enjoyment I have allowed her to go
on counting on me until the thought of my going to see Lizzie Lithicum
nearly kills her. Well, by George! I can cut that off, and I shall,
too."

Just then, in looking across the meadow lying between his house and the
main road, he saw the short form of Peter Slogan approaching.

"He's coming here," thought Westerfelt. "She has asked him to bring
the letters, even before breakfast. That's the little woman's way of
showing her pride. What a contemptible scoundrel I am!"

But as he continued to watch the approaching figure he was surprised to
note that Slogan was displaying more energy than usual. The little,
short man was taking long steps, and now and then jumping over an
obstacle instead of going around it. And when he had reached the gate
he leaned on it and stared straight at Westerfelt, as if he had lost
his power of speech. Then it was that Westerfelt remarked that
Slogan's face looked troubled, and that a general air of agitation
rested on him.

"I wish you'd step out, if you please, John," he said, after a moment,
"I've been walkin' so blamed fast I've mighty nigh lost my breath. I'm
blowin' like a stump-suckin' hoss."

Westerfelt went to him.

"What is the matter, Slogan?" he questioned, in a tone of concern.

"We've had big trouble over our way," panted Slogan. "Sally fell off'n
the foot-log into the creek this mornin' an' was drowned."

"Drowned! You don't mean that, Slogan!" cried Westerfelt, in horror;
"surely there is some mistake!"

"No; she's as dead as a mackerel," Slogan answered. "She wasn't
diskivered tell she'd been under water fer a good half-hour. She
started, as usual, about daybreak, over to her cousin, Molly Dugan's,
fer a bucke