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?
From his window he had a clear view of Mrs. Dawson's house. There was
a group of people in their best clothes on the porch, and considerable
activity about the front yard, to the fence of which a goodly number of
horses and mules were hitched. The little church, with its gray,
weather-beaten spire, could also be seen farther away, on a slight
elevation.
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