“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-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.