Something was impending. In a vague way the people felt that something
sinister was going to happen.
'Twas about midnight in the village of Marsden. Darkness enveloped it
as a mourning garment. Painful effort, and strife, and sorrow were all
forgotten in that deep sleep which, as the good Book says, is peculiarly
sweet to the laboring man.
The Duquettes had not yet retired to rest. Mrs. Duquette had been kept
up by an ailing child. She was sitting with her little one on her knee.
Suddenly there was a detonation and a crash of glass. A whizzing bullet
lodged in the face of the clock above Mrs. Duquette's head. Who fired
the shot? And what was the motive? Was it intended that the bullet
should kill, or only alarm?
Was it intended that the Duquettes should recognize the desirability of
vacating the farm?
Who fired the shot?
Nothing was said openly about it; but the old people shook their heads,
and hinted that cowboys, with pistols ostentatiously stuck in their
belts, were not the most desirable residents of a quiet village like
Marsden.
Pages:
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48