"Here's the stable key," interrupted Westerfelt, with a shudder. "Take
any horse you want. You'll find saddles and bridles in the shed."

Slogan turned away, and Westerfelt walked back to the veranda. "My
God!" he groaned; "why don't I _know_ it was accident? If it was not,
then may the Lord have mercy on my soul!"

He went into his room and threw himself on his bed and stared fixedly
at the ceiling, a thousand conflicting thoughts crowding upon him.
Presently he heard Slogan talking to the horse in the yard, and went
out just as he was mounting.

"I wisht you'd hand me a switch, John," he said. "I don't want to be
all day goin' an' comin'. I'll be blamed ef I ain't afeerd them two
ol' cats 'll be a-fightin' an' scratchin' 'fore I get back. They had a
time of it while the gal was alive, an' I reckon thar 'll be no peace
at all now."

"Does Mrs. Dawson blame anybody--or--or--?" Westerfelt paused as if he
hardly knew how to finish.

"Oh, I reckon the ol' woman does feel a leetle hard at us--my wife in
particular, an'--an' some o' the rest, I reckon. You see, thar was a
lot said at the quiltin' yesterday about Lizzie Lithicum a-cuttin' of
Sally out, an' one thing or other, an' a mother's calculated to feel
bitter about sech talk, especially when her only child is laid out as
cold an' stiff as a poker."

Again Westerfelt shuddered; his face was ghastly; his mouth was drawn
and his lips quivered; there was a desperate, appealing, shifting of