“No,” answered Balser, positively.
Liney continued; “That’s what makes me think it’s a charm; for you couldn’t see it in the dark unless it was a charm, could you, Balser?”
“I should think not.”
“There’s a great big piece of glass, or whatever it is, in the centre of it—as big as a large pea, and around this big piece are four words in some strange language that nobody can make out,—at least, mother says that nobody in this country can make them out. Mother told me that the charm was given to her for me by a gypsy man, when I was a baby. Mother says there’s something more to tell me about it when I become a woman. Maybe that’s the charm of it; I’m sure it is.” And she looked up to Balser with her soft, bright eyes full of inquiry and hope.
“I do believe that thing is a charm,” said Balser. Then meditatively: “I know it’s a charm. Don’t tell me, Liney, that you don’t know a lot of things.”
Liney’s sad face wore a dim smile of satisfaction at Balser’s compliments, and again they both became silent. Balser remained in a brown study for a few moments, and then asked:—
“Where does your mother keep the—the charm?”
“She keeps it in a box under my bed.”
“Good! good!” responded Balser. “Now I’ll tell you what to do to make it a sure enough charm.”
“Yes, yes,” eagerly interrupted Liney.