"Every single sparrow is God's," she explained as they worked together in the vegetable patch. "And if He looks after them when they break their wings or their legs, He'll look after a poor baby with a broken arm. Most likely He reckoned this place was going to be too hard for Buddy, and because He thought so much of him He wanted to put him in some other place. He came in the night, so as not to wake that old ogre, and just took Buddy away quietly; and by now he's prob'ly all well again." Cynthy paused in her work of pulling weeds to consider the subject. "He'd otter let me know," she declared, aggrievedly. "He might take keer o' me, too. Do He think I ain't got no feelin'? Ef my Pappy knowed how old Grimes 'bused me he'd shoot him plumb full o' holes. An' my Pappy paid him money so's I'd git 'nough ter eat 'thout workin' this-a-way." "When's your Pappy coming back?" asked Stephen, pouring kerosene into the can in which he had assembled hundreds of potato bugs, plucked from the vines that day and which were now about to be incinerated. It was a task and an execution thoroughly repugnant to him and which always made him feel ill. "He ain't never comin' back hyer no mo'," replied Cynthy. "We-all couldn't git along hyer nohow. Ther wa'n't no work nor nawthin' ter eat. When he gits a good payin' job up no'th he 'lows ter sen' money ter Pete fer me an' Buddy ter j'ine him an' Mammy. An' now Buddy's gone, an' even ef God did take him I reckon I'll ketch th' devil fer leavin' him outer my sight." Mollie had recalled repeatedly the conversation which she had heard between Peter and Maria regarding the unpaid for baby but her natural kindness of heart kept her from telling Cynthy of the harsh words. Both she and Stephen were too young to connect them in any way with the mysterious disappearance of the baby. The unaccustomed hardships which she and Stephen were daily compelled to undergo had already worked great changes in their appearance, their habits and conversation. Stephen, undoubtedly suffered most because he was just old enough and large enough to be made a farm drudge, carrying loads that were too heavy for his shoulders; performing duties that should have been performed by a man; repairing fences, digging in the garden, working steadily for long hours at a stretch; and all without proper nourishment or even enough food to stay the perpetual hunger which was rapidly stunting him physically and breaking down his constitution and resistance to disease.