“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