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 black. His matted hair hung long beneath his soft felt hat. The child looked up at him with fearless, questioning glance, then trotted in to her friend.
"Frale, did you see that man lookin' over the fence? You think he was lookin' for you, Frale? Come see who 'tis. P'r'aps he's a friend of yours."
"Dorothy, Dorothy," called her mother from the piazza, and the child bounded away, her puppy yelping and leaping at her side. The tall man turned at the corner and looked back at the child.
The bishop's place occupied one corner of the block, and the fence with a hedge beneath it ran the whole length of two sides. Slowly sauntering along the second side, the gaunt, hungry-eyed man continued his way, searching every part of the yard and garden, even endeavoring, with backward, furtive glances, to see into the woodhouse, where in the darkness Frale crouched, once more pallid with abject fear, peering through the crack where on its hinges the door swung half open.