particular, an'--an' some o' the rest, I reckon. You see, thar was a
lot said at the quiltin' yesterday about Lizzie Lithicum a-cuttin' of
Sally out, an' one thing or other, an' a mother's calculated to feel
bitter about sech talk, especially when her only child is laid out as
cold an' stiff as a poker."

Again Westerfelt shuddered; his face was ghastly; his mouth was drawn
and his lips quivered; there was a desperate, appealing, shifting of
his eyes.

"I reckon Mrs. Dawson feels hurt at me," he said, tentatively.

Slogan hesitated a moment before speaking.

"Well," he said, as if he felt some sort of apology should come from
him, "maybe she does--a little, John, but the Lord knows you cayn't
expect much else at sech a time, an' when she's under sech a strain."

"Did 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-offi