'Tilda Jane released him and raised her head. The old man was approaching, leaning heavily on his crutches. The beauty of the day had penetrated and animated even his ancient bones. 'Tilda Jane was delighted to see him moving about, but, giving no sign of her satisfaction, she rose and prepared to enter the house. He did not approve of having the front door unlocked, he did not approve of her habit of dodging out-of-doors whenever she had no work to do inside. She felt this, although he had never said it, and pushing Gippie into the hall, she stepped down the walk to pick up her ball of yarn.
The dog's enemy was some distance away, and seeing him leaning so heavily on his crutches, it did not occur to her that there could be any fear of danger. However, with all her acuteness, she did not measure the depth of his animosity, nor the agility with which it could inspire him.
With a deftness and lightness that would have been admirable if it had not been cruel, the old man bore all his weight on one crutch, swung the other around in the air, and with the heavy end struck a swift, sure blow on Poacher's glossy black forehead.
It was all done in the twinkling of an eye—in the short space of time that the little girl's back was turned. She heard the crashing blow, flashed around, and saw the black body of the dog extended on a white snow-bank. His eyes were open, his expression was still the loving one with which he had been regarding her as she stooped to pick up the ball.
For an instant 'Tilda Jane felt no emotion but wonder. She stood stock-still, staring alternately at the old man and at the motionless body of the dog. It had occurred to her that he would kill one of her pets if he had a chance, but now that he had done it, the thing seemed unreal, almost absurd. Surely she was dreaming—that was not Poacher lying there dead.
She went up to the dog, touched him with soft, amazed fingers, lifted the velvet ears, and put her hands on his forehead. There was the slightest ruffling of the smooth skin where the crutch had struck him.
The old man stood and watched her for a few seconds, his face a trifle redder than usual, but giving no other sign of emotion. He watched her until she lifted her head and looked at him, then he turned hastily and limped to the back door.
It was an awful look to see on the face of a child,—an avenging, unforgiving, hateful look,—the look of a grown person in cold, profound wrath. He did not regret killing the dog, he would like to dispose of the other one, but he did object to those murderous eyes. She was capable of killing him. He must get rid of her, and make his peace with some of the Ciscasset witches, in order that they might come and wait on him.
He went thoughtfully into the house and sat down in his usual corner beyond the kitchen stove. He wondered whether she would give him any supper. He could get it himself to-night if she did not. He was certainly better, and a glow of pleasure made his blood feel warm in his veins.
Stay—there she was, coming slowly in—he thanked his lucky stars, looking very much the same as usual. He would not be slain in his bed that night. And she was getting fresh wood for the fire. Perhaps she would make hot cakes for supper. She was wonderfully smart for a girl. He had several times speculated as to her age. Sometimes when talking to the dogs she seemed no more than eleven or twelve years old. Ordinarily she appeared to him about fifteen, but small for the age. To-day in her wrath, she might be taken for seventeen. How subdued she seemed as she moved about the kitchen. He had done a good thing to strike down one of those animals. She would not have such an independent air now.