Mary pushed back the door and passed through the kitchen, serving herself all the while to meet the objurgations which she supposed were lying in wait for her.  The sunshine was blinding without, but sifted through the green jalousies, it made a gray, crepuscular light within.  As the girl approached the table, on which a plate with knife and fork had been laid for breakfast, she noticed, somewhat indistinctly at first, a thin red line running obliquely across the floor from the direction of the sitting-room and ending near the stove, where it had formed a small pool.  Mary stopped short, scarcely conscious why, and peered instinctively into the adjoining apartment.  Then, with a smothered cry, she let fall the milk-can, and a dozen white rivulets, in strange contrast to that one dark red line which first startled her, went meandering over the kitchen floor.  With her eyes riveted upon some object in the next room, the girl retreated backward slowly and heavily dragging one foot after the other, until she reached the gallery door; then she turned swiftly, and plunged into the street.

Twenty minutes later, every man, woman, and child in Stillwater knew that old Mr. Shackford had been murdered.

Mary Hennessey had to tell her story a hundred times during the morning, for each minute brought to Michael’s tenement a fresh listener hungry for the details at first hand.

“How was it, Molly?  Tell a body, dear!”

“Don’t be asking me!” cried Molly, pressing her palms to her eyes as if to shut out the sight, but taking all the while a secret creepy satisfaction in living the scene over again.  “It was kinder dark in the other room, and there he was, laying in his night-gownd, with his face turned towards me, so, looking mighty severe-like, jest as if he was a-going to say, ’It’s late with the milk ye are, ye hussy!’—­a way he had of spaking.”

“But he didn’t spake, Molly darlin’?”

“Niver a word.  He was stone dead, don’t you see.  It was that still you could hear me heart beat, saving there wasn’t a drop of beat in it.  I let go the can, sure, and then I backed out, with me eye on ’im all the while, afeard to death that he would up and spake them words.”

“The pore child! for the likes of her to be wakin’ up a murthered man in the mornin’!”

There was little or no work done that day in Stillwater outside the mills, and they were not running full handed.  A number of men from the Miantowona Iron Works and Slocum’s Yard—­Slocum employed some seventy or eighty hands—­lounged about the streets in their blouses, or stood in knots in front of the tavern, smoking short clay pipes.  Not an urchin put in an appearance at the small red brick building on the turnpike.  Mr. Pinkham, the school-master, waited an hour for the recusants, then turned the key in the lock and went home.

Dragged-looking women, with dishcloth or dustpan in hand, stood in door-ways or leaned from windows, talking in subdued voices with neighbors on the curb-stone.  In a hundred far-away cities the news of the suburban tragedy had already been read and forgotten; but here the horror stayed.