harm to my husband
whose work is very dangerous, I ran out bare-headed to the gate, when I
saw why the man in the sleigh was making me such wild gestures. His hat
had blown off, and was lying close up against the fence in front of me.
Anxious always to oblige, I made haste to snatch at it and carry it out
to its owner. I received a sort of thank you, and would never have
remembered the occurrence if it had not been for that murder and if--"
She paused doubtfully, ran her fingers nervously over her child's head,
looked again at Sweetwater waiting expectantly for her next word, and
faltered painfully--"if I had not recognised the horse."

Sweetwater drew a deep breath; it was such a happy climax. Then, as she
showed no signs of saying more, asked as quietly as his rapidly beating
heart permitted:

"Didn't you recognise the man?"

Her answer was short but as candid as her expression.

"No. The snow was blinding; besides he wore a high collar, in which his
head was sunk down almost out of sight."

"But the horse--"

"Was one which is often driven by here. I had rather not tell you whose
it is. I have not told any one, not even my husband, about seeing it on
the road that night. I couldn't somehow. But if it will save a man's life
and make clear who killed that good woman, ask any one on the Hill, in
what stable you can find a grey horse with a large black spot on his left
shoulder, and you will know as much about it as I do. Isn't that enough,
sir? Now, I must dish up my dinner."

"Yes, yes; it's almost enough. Just one question, madam. Was the hat what
folks call a derby? Like this one, madam," he explained, drawing his own
from behind his back.

"Yes, I think so. As well as I can remember, it was like that. I'm afraid
I didn't do it any good by my handling. I had to clutch it quick and I'm
sure I bent the brim, to say nothing of smearing it with flour-marks."

"How?" Sweetwater had started for the door, but stopped, all eagerness at
this last remark.

"I had been cutting out biscuits, and my hands were white with flour,"
she explained, simply. "But that brushes off easily; I don't suppose it
mattered."

"No, no," he hastily assented. Then while he smiled and waved his hand to
the little urchin who had been his means of introduction to this possibly
invaluable witness, he made one final plea and that was for her name.

"Eliza Simmons," was the straightforward reply; and this ended the
interview.

The husb