pistol appeared, Morrison whipped out his revolver, and shot him through
the head. Warren fell backward, and died in a few minutes. The dreadful
act has caused the utmost excitement throughout the country, whose
annals, as far as serious crime is concerned, are stainless. A singular
circumstance must be noted. There is not a single person who regards
Morrison in the light of a murderer. The act is everywhere deplored, but
Morrison's own statement, backed by several witnesses, that he committed
the deed in self-defence, is as generally accepted, and the consequence
is that every house is open to him, no man's back is turned upon him,
and his friends still hold out to him the hand of fellowship. He is
still at large, and likely to be so, as the county is without police,
and strangers coming here would have no chance of arresting him. Indeed,
Morrison, armed with a rifle and two revolvers, walks about Megantic
and Marsden in broad daylight--perfectly safe from harm, as far as the
people themselves are concerned. It is said the Provincial Government
are about to take some steps in the matter."

Minnie read this account through to the end. She seemed to grow stiff,
and her eyes dilated with a nameless horror. She did not faint. That is
a privilege reserved for the heroines of the Seaside Library. This is
a very modest narrative of fact, and we could not afford so dramatic a
luxury as that. Minnie was a hearty country girl, and oatmeal repudiates
all affinity with hysterics.

Minnie read the article, threw down the paper, and rushed to her room.
She flung herself beside her bed. First of all, she didn't believe the
story. It was a foul lie. "What! Donald Morrison kill a man! Donald, my
lover, whom I have known since childhood--whose generous instincts I
have so often admired! Donald Morrison to redden his hands with the
blood of his fellow! Impossible, impossible! Oh, Donald, Donald," she