It was a dreary walk, through the snowy roads and under the leaden-coloured sky.  She had to pass through a part of the town which lay close to the river, where the principal shops and warehouses stood.  Passing one of the shops, or as they were generally called, “stores,” she remembered some purchases she wanted to make, and went in.  While she was occupied with her business, some loud voices at the further end of the store attracted her attention, and she was aware of a group of men sitting upon barrels and boxes, and keeping up a noisy conversation, mixed with frequent bursts of laughter.

The store was not one of the best class even for Cacouna, but Mrs. Costello had gone into it because it had a kind of “specialite,” for the articles she required.  It was most frequented by rough backwoodsmen and farmers, and to that class the noisy party seemed to belong.  Some little time was necessary to find from a back shop one of the things Mrs. Costello asked for, and while she waited she could not help but hear what these men were saying.  A good many oaths garnished their speeches, which, deprived of them, were much as follows: 

“You did not go into mourning, anyhow?”

“Not I. Saved me a deal of trouble, he did.”

“You’ll be turned out all the same, yet, I guess.”

“They have not turned me out yet.  And if Bellairs tries that trick again, I’ll send my old woman and the baby to Mrs. Morton.  That’ll fix it.”

There was a roar of laughter.  Then,

“They are sure to hang him, I suppose?”

“First hanging ever’s been at Cacouna if they do.”

“I guess you’ll be going to see him hung, eh, Clarkson?”

“I reckon so; but it’s time I was off.”

One of the speakers, a thickset, heavy-browed man, came down the store, stared rudely at Mrs. Costello as he passed, and going out, got into a waggon that stood outside, and drove away.

At the same moment the shopman came back and wondered at his customer’s trembling hand as he showed her what he had brought.  She scarcely understood what he said.  She had turned cold as ice, and was saying over and over to herself, “The murderer, the murderer.”  She hurried to finish her business and get out into the open air, for in the store she felt stifled.  She had never before seen, to her knowledge, this Clarkson, whom she accused in her heart; and now his evil countenance, his harsh voice and brutal laugh had thrown her into a sudden terror and tumult.  As she walked quickly along, she remembered a story she had heard of him, when and how she scarcely knew, but the story itself came back to her mind with singular distinctness.