Sally’s mother firmly believed the gal had run off.  I don’t know why she ’lowed Sally would do sech a thing, but she did, and jest paced up an’ down the yard yellin’ an’ takin’ on an’ beggin’ us to go fetch her back, so that none of us at the house thought o’ draggin’ the hole at the foot-log.  But Bill Dugan did, an’ soon come with the news whar she was at.  Then her ma jest had a spasm.  I railly believe on my soul she cussed God an’ all futurity.  She raved till she was black in the face.”

“Then there is—­is no doubt about it?” gasped Westerfelt.  “She is dead?”

“Of course she’s dead,” answered Slogan; “an’ bein’ as my hoss ain’t to be had, I ‘lowed I’d try to borrow one o’ yore’n to go order the coffin.”  Slogan here displayed a piece of twine which he had wound into a coil.  “I’ve got the exact length o’ the body.  I ’lowed that would be the best way.  I reckon they kin tell me at the store how much play a corpse ort to have at each end.  I’ve noticed that coffins always look longer, a sight, than the pusson ever did that was to occupy ’em, but I thought ef I tuck the exact measure—­”

“Here’s the stable key,” interrupted Westerfelt, with a shudder.  “Take any horse you want.  You’ll find saddles and bridles in the shed.”

Slogan turned away, and Westerfelt walked back to the veranda.  “My God!” he groaned; “why don’t I know it was accident?  If it was not, then may the Lord have mercy on my soul!”

He went into his room and threw himself on his bed and stared fixedly at the ceiling, a thousand conflicting thoughts crowding upon him.  Presently he heard Slogan talking to the horse in the yard, and went out just as he was mounting.

“I wisht you’d hand me a switch, John,” he said.  “I don’t want to be all day goin’ an’ comin’.  I’ll be blamed ef I ain’t afeerd them two ol’ cats ‘ll be a-fightin’ an’ scratchin’ ’fore I get back.  They had a time of it while the gal was alive, an’ I reckon thar ’ll be no peace at all now.”

“Does Mrs. Dawson blame anybody—­or—­or—?” Westerfelt paused as if he hardly knew how to finish.

“Oh, I reckon the ol’ woman does feel a leetle hard at us—­my wife in particular, an’—­an’ some o’ the rest, I reckon.  You see, thar was a lot said at the quiltin’ yesterday about Lizzie Lithicum a-cuttin’ of Sally out, an’ one thing or other, an’ a mother’s calculated to feel bitter about sech talk, especially when her only child is laid out as cold an’ stiff as a poker.”

Again Westerfelt shuddered; his face was ghastly; his mouth was drawn and his lips quivered; there was a desperate, appealing, shifting of his eyes.

“I reckon Mrs. Dawson feels hurt at me,” he said, tentatively.

Slogan hesitated a moment before speaking.

“Well,” he said, as if he felt some sort of apology should come from him, “maybe she does—­a little, John, but the Lord knows you cayn’t expect much else at sech a time, an’ when she’s under sech a strain.”