"This is yore home now," ejaculated Maria slowly, after she had comprehended the mutinous speech. "It is not." "Shuah hit es. Yo' an' me's goin' ter cook an' wash dishes an' arter while yo' kin go with me ter pull weeds an' pick 'tater-bugs." The evident friendliness of this announcement disarmed Mollie. She had once looked at the colored pictures in a book of natural history and been much interested in the attractive jacket worn by the queer little bug "that just loved potatoes". Perhaps, she reflected, if she were good, as her Papa had told her to be, everything would yet turn out all right. If they had potato bugs and a horse at this queer place, they must also have sparrows. And if they had sparrows, God must be around somewhere. Perhaps He was looking for her at that very moment. With a winning smile she peered up into Maria's weather-beaten countenance. "I'd like that," she said. "And then can I see Walter?" "Shuah. Yo' kin tote his feed." Mollie skipped about ecstatically. "Let's hurry," she said. "I like to do things quick. How do you wash dishes? That isn't the way Lucy does. If I was bigger I'd show you." "I'll git me a box down ter th' barn fer yo' ter stan' on, an' termorrer yo' kin do 'em by yo'self while I set," said Maria. Mollie's tongue, once loosened, found much to say. She enjoyed talking and Maria was a wonderful listener. Just as the dishes were finished and they were about to start for the truck patch a scream sounded. Another and another followed. They were screams of terror. Maria stood, as if rooted to the spot. Mollie raised her little hands in an involuntary gesture of alarm. Her heart seemed to flutter into her throat. "Splutters!" she gasped, and darted like a bird in the direction whence the cries came. CHAPTER IV AN UNEQUAL STRUGGLE "But whoso shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea."--Matt. xviii, 6 Terror lent wings to Mollie's feet. Instinct guided her over the unknown terrain of the wretched farm-yard. The overwhelming desire to aid Stephen in whatever peril threatened him restrained any thought of self. No sound escaped her lips. Unconsciously she conserved all her energy for the crucial moment that was to come. Around the corner of the dilapidated barn with no thought of the horse, Walter, placidly munching his feed; past the miserable pig-sty with its great, fierce-looking inmates peering at her through the interstices of its frame work; along the worn path toward the vegetable garden she sped with the fleetness of a tiny, avenging spirit, ready to combat any ogre who might bar her way. [Illustration: _Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay_. _Sparrows_. "GIMME THAT BRAT!"]