Chapter V
The Breath of Slander
"When a man dies he kicks the dust." Thus pithily wrote Henry Thoreau, the
quaint philosopher, in his little shack by the beautiful Walden pool. The
truth of this saying was certainly verified in old Billy Fletcher's death,
and the people of Glendow were destined to see the dust stirred by his
departure, rise in a dense cloud and centre around the venerable parson of
Glendow.
The day after the fire was clear and fine. Not a breath of wind stirred
the crisp air, and the sun-kissed snow lying smooth and white over all the
land sparkled like millions of diamonds.
Near the window in her little cottage, not far from the Rectory, sat Mrs.
Larkins, busily knitting. She was a woman of superior qualities and had
seen better days. Her toil-worn hands and care-marked face could not
disguise the gentle, refined spirit within, which expressed itself in her
every word and action. Two little graves in the Churchyard, lying side by
side, and marked by a small cross of white marble, told how the silent
messenger had entered that home. Often the husband and wife were seen
standing by those little mounds, while tears coursed down their rugged,
honest cheeks.
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