Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking,
for now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a
delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left
it, and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must
have traveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes
up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his
wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to
meet him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile
of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how
beautiful she is! He springs forwards with extended arms. As he is
about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck;
a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the
shock of a cannon--then all is darkness and silence!

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently
from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.