With the scattering of the crowd on the Square, Shrimplin climbed into
his cart and drove off home. The smother of wind-driven snow still
enveloped the, town, the very air seemed charged with mystery and
horror, and before the little lamplighter's eyes was ever the haunting
vision of the murdered man.

He drove into the alley back of his house, unhitched Bill and led him
into the barn. His torch made the gloom of the place more terrifying
than utter darkness would have been. Suppose the murderer should be
hiding there! Mr. Shrimplin's mind fastened on the hay-mow as the most
likely place of concealment, and the cold sweat ran from him in icy
streams; he could, almost see the murderer's evil eyes fixed upon him
from the blackness above. But at last Bill was stripped of his harness,
and the little lamplighter, escaping from the barn with its fancied
terrors, hurried across his small back yard to his kitchen door.

"Well!" said Mrs. Shrimplin, as he entered the room. "I was beginning to
wonder if you'd ever think it worth your while to come home!"

"What's the bell been ringing for?" asked Custer. Mrs. Shrimplin was
seated by the table, which was littered with her sewing; Custer occupied
his usual chair by the stove, and it was evident that they knew nothing
of the tragedy in which Mr. Shrimplin had played so important, and as he
now felt, so worthy a part.

"I suppose I've been out quite a time, and I may say I've seen times,
too! I guess there ain't no one in the town fitter to say they seen
times than just me!"