an begun flyin around Liz Lithicum. I know yore sort. It is the
runnin after a thing that amuses you, an as soon as you get it you turn
agin it an spurn it under foot an laugh at it when it strugles in pain.
Lawsy me. God Almighty dont inflict good men with that Disease, but
you will have it nawin at yore Hart tel you run across some huzzy that
will rule you her way. Beware, John Westerfelt, you will want to marry
before long; you are a lonely, selfish Man, an you will want a wife an
childern to keep you company an make you forget yore evil ways, but it
is my constant prayer that you will never git one that loves you. I am
prayin for that very thing and I believe it will come. John
Westerfelt, I am yore Enemy--I am that ef it drags me into the Scorchin
flames of hell.

"SUE DAWSON."


He refolded the letter, put it with quivering fingers back into its
envelope, and then opened the newspaper and held it before his eyes.
There was a clatter of dishes and pans in the back part of the house.
A negro woman was out in the wood-yard, picking up chips and singing a
low camp-meeting hymn. Now and then some one would tramp over the
resounding floor, through the hall to the dining-room.

Harriet went to the door and closed it. Then she turned to him. The
paper had slipped from his fingers and lay across his breast.

"What shall I get for your breakfast?" she asked. She moved round on
the other side of the bed, wondering if it was the yellow morning light
or his physical weakness that gave his face such a depressed, ghastly
look.