MARCH CALLED IN AT Variable Winds on his way to the Tracy funeral. We were all ready to go, for though none of us wanted to, it was a matter of convention and the whole village would have commented unkindly had we stayed away.
I, especially, dreaded it, for I dislike funerals, and I hated the thought of the entire community sitting up there, casting glances at Alma and making whispered remarks about her.
But I had to go, so I made the best of it, and, garbed in appropriate black, I sat with the others awaiting the time to start.
March came in, looking harassed and worn.
“It’s all too dreadful,” he said, sinking into a chair. “Everything seems to point to Alma Remsen, yet I am not convinced of her guilt.”
I started to speak, but thought better of it. Since March held that opinion nothi
