A
sum of money had come to him from his father's estate, and with it he
had purchased a livery-stable at the village of Cartwright. Ever since
Sally Dawson's death, he had wanted an excuse to get away from the spot
where the tragedy had occurred, and his leaving his farm to the
management of his uncle now caused no particular comment among his
neighbors.
Reaching the highest point of the mountain, the village in question lay
in the valley below. Here he paused and looked behind him.
"God being my helper, I'm going to try to begin a new life over here,"
he said, almost aloud. "Surely, I have repented sorely enough, and
this is not shirking my just punishment. A man ought to make something
of himself, and I never could, in my frame of mind, with that poor,
silent old woman constantly before my eyes, and knowing that she will
never forgive my offence, and is perhaps constantly praying for some
calamity to strike me down."
At the first house in the outskirts of the village he dismounted. A
woman hearing his approach announced by a couple of lean dogs, which
sprang from under the porch, came to the door.
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