For Maria, they provided diversion and entertainment. Without knowing it she had suffered all her life for lack of human companionship. Her father, the old moonshiner, and Peter her brutal consort, were both hard men, of few words. Young Ambrose, as yet, did little more than howl. The advent of a talkative little girl and a kindly-spoken, gentle-mannered boy left the gaunt, stupid woman somewhat dazed. She studied the two attentively and listened, only half-comprehending, to their conversation. The morning following their arrival, little Mollie cried. She was tired and aching from her sleep on the floor and very, very hungry. Maria, not intentionally cruel, and anxious to quell the outbreak of tears before Peter came within hearing, strove to learn what the child was crying about and made haste to supply something substantial in the way of food. She could not conceive of such a thing as homesickness. Her naïve questions finally resulted in staying Mollie's sobs and launching the little chatter-box upon a sea of vivid description of that world in which she had spent her short life. "I know how to wipe dishes," she announced. "And once, Lucy let me make the coffee. Lucy's our cook. She showed me how to do lots of things. I can sew, too. My Mama taught me." There was a suspicion of tears again. Stephen, until now very still, suddenly looked up from his huge cup of unappetizing coffee. "Did you ever make a kite?" "What's a kite?" Maria got her snuff dip and sat down to listen. "It's a big piece of paper like this," Stephen explained, indicating with his arms and hands the dimensions of the kite he had in mind. "You can put pictures on it if you want to, or you can write something on it. And you make a long tail for it out of most anything and then you take a string and run with it. Only it has to be a long string for the kite goes higher and higher, and then goes away off, nobody knows where. If you don't let go of the string you can pull it back again. But if you let go it just sails away to New York or China or some place a long way off. You never see it again." "I reckon I'd see it again if it went straight up to heaven," exclaimed Mollie, ready to argue the matter. "How?" "Because God's up in heaven. He wouldn't take anything away from little children and not give it back some day." Then, suddenly, "Oh, of course, if it got all torn and rained on I reckon He'd feel sorry and--maybe give back something lots nicer. Did you ever try sending Him one, Splutters?" Splutters had not. He did not think he could make a kite that would go high enough, he said. Ambrose, waddling into the kitchen at that moment, paused by the stove to investigate the contents of a pan just within his reach. The pan overturned. There was a splash, a clatter and a shriek. Maria lurched to her feet.