atching the trail below for intruders on his privacy.

The joy of life had gone out for him. He thought continually of
Cassandra and desired her; and his soul wearied for her, until he was
tempted to go back to the mountains at all risks, merely for a sight of
her. Painfully he had tried to learn to write, working at the copies
Betty Towers had set for him,--and certainly she had done all her
conscientious heart prompted to interest him and keep him away from the
village loungers. He had even progressed far enough to send two horribly
spelled missives to Cassandra, feeling great pride in them. And now he
had begun to weary of learning. To be able to write those badly scrawled
notes was in his eyes surely enough to distinguish him from his
companions at home; of what use was more?

"What's that you are tossing up in the air? Let me see it," demanded the
child, as Frale tossed and caught again a small, bright object. He kept
on tossing it and catching it away from the two little hands stretched
out to receive it. "Give it to me. Give it to me, Frale. Let me see it."

He dropped it lightly in her palm. "Don't you lose hit. That thar's
somethin' 'at's got a charm to hit."

"What's a 'charm to hit'? I don't see any charm."

Then Frale laughed aloud. He took it with his thumb and forefinger and
held it between his eye and the sun. "Is that the way you see the 'charm
to hit'? Let me try."

But he slipped it in his pocket, first placing it in a small bag which
he drew up tightly with a string. "Hit hain't nothing you kin see. Hit's
only a charm 'at makes hit plumb sure to kill anybody 'at hit hits.
Hit's plumb sure to hit an' plumb sure to kill, too."

"Oh, Frale! What if it had hit me when you threw it up that
way--and--killed me? Then you'd be sorry, wouldn't you, Frale?"

"Hit nevah wouldn't kill a girl--a nice little girl--like you be. Hit's
charmed that-a-way, 'at hit won't kill nobody what I don't want hit to."

"Then what do you keep it in your pocket for? You don't want to kill
anybody, do you, Frale?"

"Naw--I reckon not; not 'thout I have to."

"But you don't have to, do you, Frale?" piped the child.

He rose, and selecting an armful of stove wood carried it into the shed
and began packing it away. Dorothy sat still on the log, her elbows on
her knees, her chin in her hands, meditating. A tall man slouched by and
peered over the high board fence at her. His eyes roved all about the
place eagerly, keen and