not noticed till now. "Well, so long, Mr. Westerfelt, I reckon you
know yore own business, but I 'lowed everybody would turn out, through
respect to all concerned, if nothin' else."

"I am not going; it is impossible for me to go," answered Westerfelt,
and he turned abruptly into the house.

Alone in his room, Westerfelt took Sally Dawson's last letter from his
pocket and read it again. Then he lighted a match and started to burn
it, but some inward fear seemed to check him, and the match burned down
to his rigid fingers and went out. "No," he said, "that would be
cowardly. I shall keep it always, to remind me of my hellish mistake.
Great God! the idea of my going to her funeral in a red wagon with
Lizzie Lithicum--Lizzie Lithicum!"


The next morning, as he was returning from the post-office, Westerfelt
met Peter Slogan riding to a field he had rented down the road, and
which he was getting ready for cotton-planting. Slogan was astride of
his bony horse, which was already clad in shuck collar and clanking
harness, and carried on his shoulder a cumbersome plough-stock.

"Well," he smiled, reining in as he caught Westerfelt's eye, "I 'lowed
hard work in the sun would do more to git the kinks out'n me after all
the trouble at my house than anything else."

"How is Mrs. Dawson?" ventured Westerfelt.

"You'd better ax me how she _ain't_," retorted Slogan, shrugging his
shoulders. "I could tell you a sight easier. She's turned into a