Mollie, whose natural instinct was to care for and mother something and who could not withstand a cry of distress from anyone or anything, was wholly engrossed in helping Maria bandage the blistered hand and quiet the cries of the luckless Ambrose. The little girl ran willingly here and there, doing whatever she was told, making suggestions as they came to her mind and trying in one way and another, after the manner of children, to divert the attention of the crying child from his injury and to make him laugh. In this she eventually succeeded. She danced for him. Ambrose, more frightened than hurt by the accident and having created as much excitement as possible, permitted his mother to deposit him on the floor that he, too, might dance. The effort was not satisfactory. He had been dragging a stick with him when he entered the house. It now lay on the floor under his feet. He kicked it, then picked it up and, brandishing it in his uninjured hand, lunged wildly at Mollie. Some children talk volubly at three years of age. Ambrose, overgrown and lumbering, and nearing five years, possessed but a very limited vocabulary. "Git," he cried excitedly. "Git--Git!" Maria looked around. "Yo' better do whut he tells yo'," she warned Mollie. "Ef yo' doan, he'll hit yo'. He wants yo' to run so he kin play drivin' Walter." Mollie evaded the stick by dodging. "Who's Walter?" she asked. "Our horse," returned Maria, shortly. The little girl's eyes sparkled. "Oh, I love horses," she exclaimed. "Can I see yours?" "Not now yo' cain't. Yo' said yo' could do dishes. I'm goin' ter let yo' do 'em." The woman's tone implied a command. Child though she was, Mollie sensed it. The momentary pleasure that had brightened her piquant little face at the mention of the horse now gave place to something akin to fear. This was not the kindly, humorous old cook, Lucy, who, by dint of much coaxing, had permitted her to wipe a few pieces of silver and her own cup and saucer occasionally. This was a gaunt, untidy, unkempt woman who had a wild look in her eyes and who seemed to be always afraid of something. Now she turned to her own offspring and pushed him forcibly out the door. "Yo' git, yo'self, Sonny," she ordered. "Yo' kin make Mollie git, arter th' dishes is done. See what yo' Pappy's a-doin' down thar." Ambrose lifted up his voice to protest but glimpsed his father going toward the bog with something over his shoulder, Stephen trudging behind, also encumbered. Instantly he changed his mind and hurried as fast as his fat legs would carry him in their direction. Maria, turning again toward the heaped-up dishes on the table, looked down upon Mollie in surprise. The tot was standing rigidly in the center of the room, her eyes flashing, her tiny hands clinched. "I don't want to wipe dishes," she exclaimed. "I don't like it here. I want to go home."