“Poor little girl,” he said, as he went out on the front veranda to wait for his breakfast.  “It was just blind thoughtlessness.  I really never 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 bucket o’ fresh milk, an’ we never missed ’er until it was time she was back, an’ then we went all the way to Dugan’s before we found out she hadn’t been thar at all.  Then her ma tuck up a quar notion, an’ helt to it like a leech fer a long time.  My hoss had got out o’ the stable an’ strayed off some’rs in the woods, an’