"I'm too little, now," she would say. "But you just wait till I'm big enough. You'll see what I'll do." And she was growing faster even than the weeds she was kept perpetually pulling. The air and sunshine had been just what she needed to send the red blood coursing through her veins and bring the little hot-house plant to a fuller and more vigorous stage of development. It was her enjoyment of the out-door life and freedom from conventional restraints of dress and conduct that enabled the little girl to endure that which would otherwise have broken her physically and mentally. Since the strange disappearance of Buddy, other children had arrived at the farm. Among them were two little boys, Bobby and Willie. Bobby brought with him a little, red wagon and some building blocks. Willie knew how to climb trees and do lots of interesting acrobatic feats. But Ambrose broke the little red wagon and threw the building blocks into the bog. When their little owner protested, he was beaten with the handle of a hoe the ogre chanced to be carrying at the moment. The effect of that awful beating left the child's body covered with welts and great, purple bruises. Cynthy knew what to do for bruises. You took common, brown paper and soaked it in vinegar and placed the moist, pungent-smelling mass upon the wound. Mollie procured the necessary vinegar and paper from the house and, with Stephen to play doctor, that evening after their chores were done the children managed to make the little sufferer comfortable for the night. But the next day Bobby had to go to the vegetable patch with the other children and the hot sun made him ill. Mollie promptly abandoned her task for the time being and started forth in search of a shady retreat where Peter or Ambrose would not be likely to disturb the sick child. An attractive spot was not so easily found. Everything about the farm was untidy, unkempt and unsavory. There were beautiful nooks but they were marred by filth and debris. Mollie finally found a spot she thought might answer but even it needed attention. Patiently she gathered up the sticks, stones and battered tin cans that had accumulated and carried them, a few at a time, to the edge of the bog, into which she flung them, shutting her eyes tight as the black, viscid mass licked them hungrily like a gloating monster, before swallowing them in its depths. One of the cans fell short. It landed almost at her feet. Like the other children she was now barefoot. She did not enjoy it. Her feet had not yet hardened. They were covered with scratches, bruises and insect stings. Night after night she had cried--and so had Stephen--over the smarting, aching discomfort resultant from going without shoes and stockings. But there was no alternative. Those they had worn when they came had been taken from them. They were told they might need them, some day, if they ever went anywhere, but they were unnecessary on the farm.