You must never mention it to a soul. It is my last and only request.
It would go harder with mother if she knew that. Good-bye, John. I
love you more right now than I ever did, and I don't know as I blame
you much or harbor much resentment. I thought I would not say anything
more, but I cannot help it. John, Lizzie is not the woman for you.
She never will love you deep, or very long. Good-bye.

"SALLY."


Westerfelt put the letter in his pocket and turned his horse into an
unfrequented road leading to the mountain and along its side. The air
was filled with the subtle fragrance of growing and blooming things.
He was as near insanity as a man can well be who still retains his
mental equipoise. In this slow manner, his horse picking his way over
fallen trees and mountain streams, he traversed several miles, and
then, in utter desolation, turned homeward.

It was noon when he came in sight of his house. 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?