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 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?