Mollie fared a little better. She was about the house more and, because of her conversational powers, was favored by Maria. Her quick wit and lightning-like movements also aided her not only in defending herself against Ambrose without antagonizing his parents, but in securing many morsels of food and stolen moments of leisure without discovery. Everything about her personal appearance evidenced neglect but nothing so far had dulled the bright, mischievous sparkle in her eyes nor quelled the brave, daring spirit which dwelt within her small though sturdy frame. Until her sudden transition into the rough surroundings of this farm her earlier years had been passed almost entirely within doors. Naturally robust she was being rapidly weakened by over-much care and lack of proper exercise. She was always being told that she must be a "little lady" and not a "tom-boy." And she yearned to be a "tom-boy." From her father she had inherited a fondness for the forest, the flowers and all living creatures, as well as an intuitive sense of direction and constant urge to explore. That which was unknown and mysterious attracted her like a magnet. In a surprisingly short time after her arrival at the farm she had inspected every nook and corner of its supposed fastnesses. She knew where a small creek passed between over-hanging trees, forming an attractive pool in which the cow loved to stand occasionally and from which Walter, the horse, frequently enjoyed a cool drink. The depth of the pool varied. The water from the creek apparently emptied into or filtered through the bog, or swamp-like area which extended along one side of the isolated farm, effectually severing it from the world which lay beyond. Cynthy said that all creeks ran into rivers. Mollie knew that large boats passed on the river near her home. Her father had a boat. She could not recollect ever having seen him on it, for she had been such a baby when he went away. And when he returned there had been all the crying and excitement following her dear mother's strange sleep. (Mollie had never been told that her mother was dead.) So she had never gone riding on the water, though she had often wished to. But she had spent many happy hours playing about her father's boat--a launch, her mother had called it--down in the boat house where it was laid up pending its owner's return. Mollie knew, or thought she knew, exactly what made it go. It was a wheel, up in front. You just kept on turning that wheel and the boat sailed through the water like a bird. She had often played that she was sailing to her father, away on the other side of the world, wherever that was. She entertained Cynthy with some of these reminiscences, always ending with the avowal that some day, if Stephen's friends did not find out about the mistake which had brought him to the farm and nobody came for her, she was going to find some way of getting away from the place.