Making some unintelligible reply, Westerfelt rode on, the packet held
tightly in his hand. It was addressed in Sally Dawson's round, girlish
handwriting, and he knew it contained his letters, and perhaps--he
shuddered at the thought of what else it might contain.

He whipped his horse into a gallop. He wanted to reach a spot where he
could open the package unobserved. He met several wagons and a buggy.
They contained people who bowed and spoke to him, but he scarcely saw
them. At the first path leading from the road into the wood he turned
aside, and then opened his package. There were three or four letters
and notes he had written the dead girl, and one blotted sheet from her.
With a quaking soul he read it. It confirmed him in the fear which had
taken hold of him at the first news of the tragedy. The letter ran:


"DEAR JOHN,--I simply cannot stand it any longer. It is now about
three in the morning. Some people contend that such acts are done only
by crazy folks, but I don't believe I ever was more sensible than I am
right now. I am not ashamed to own that I had my heart and soul set on
being your wife and making you happy, but now that I know you didn't
feel a bit like I did, an' love Lizzie, I jest can't stand it. The
pain is awful--awful. I could not meet folks face to face, now that
they know the truth. I'd rather die a hundred deaths than see you an'
her even once together. I couldn't live long anyway. I'm simply too
weak and sick at heart. The hardest thing of all is to remember that
you never did care for me all the time I was making such a little fool
of myself. I know you never did. Folks said you was changeable, but I
never once believed it till last night on the road. I have fixed it so
everybody will think my death was accidental. I've been warned time
and again about that foot-log, and nobody will suspicion the truth.