noon
The air was filled with the subtle fragrance of growing and blooming things . He was as near insanity as a man can well be who still retains his mental equipoise . In this slow manner , his horse picking his way over fallen trees and mountain streams , he traversed several miles , and then , in utter desolation , turned homeward . It was noon when he came in sight of his house . Peter Slogan had returned the horse , and , with a parcel under his arm , was trudging homeward . All that night Westerfelt lay awake , and the next morning he did not leave his room , ordering the wondering servant not to prepare any breakfast for him . He did not want to show himself on the veranda or in the front yard , thinking some neighbor might stop and want to talk over the tragedy .