The debilitating effects of that long and surpassingly dreary night were all-too-plainly inscribed upon my countenance. The mere sight of my reflection in the glass—of my pale and haggard complexion—of the purplish sacs depending from beneath my eyes—of the intricate webwork of crimson capillaries defacing the orbs themselves—brought an involuntary gasp of dismay from my lips. Turning from the glass with a shudder of revulsion, I traversed my chamber, flung open the door, and stepped into the hallway.

No sooner had I done so than my finely attuned auditory sense was struck, not by any particular sound, but—on the contrary—by the entire absence of acoustical stimuli. An intense, almost preternatural, hush seemed to suffuse the atmosphere, suggesting that mine was the only living presence in the dwelling. This impression was quickly confirmed when—upon calling out to both Muddy and Sissy—I received no reply.

Deeply puzzled by this strange, this unaccountable, development, I proceeded to the kitchen, where the mystery was immediately resolved. For there, at my place at the table—along with a platter holding several biscuits and a single slice of cured ham—lay a sheet of paper that contained the following message, inscribed in my darling Muddy’s neat, if somewhat childlike, hand:

Dearest Eddie,

We have gone to the market to buy the necessaries for tonight’s dinner with Colonel Crockett. We left at II. The door to your bedchamber was still closed and all was silent within. Oh, Eddie! It is so nice that you have finally managed to get a good night’s sleep! Here is your breakfast, dear. We will return later.

Your own

Muddy

I now recalled Crockett’s solemn vow to come and listen to Sissy’s enchanting repertoire of ballads. Of course! So that was the occasion to which he had been alluding when he took his departure last evening! The extraordinary events of the past twenty-four hours had driven all thoughts of his promised visit from my mind.

The mere prospect of having to play host to the frontiersman caused my heart to sink within my bosom. Few social requirements are more supremely wearying than the effort to maintain a convivial mien when one’s soul is weighted down by care. Still, I could see no way to avoid, much less to defer, tonight’s fête. So fervently had Sissy been anticipating the affair that I had no other alternative than to resign myself to its inevitable—and all-too-imminent—occurrence.