Days and weeks rolled into months, and the months into years. Mollie and Stephen gradually gave up hoping that those responsible for their imprisonment at the Grimes farm would ever come to release them. Children came and children were taken away, and others, like Buddy, just disappeared. For these Mollie grieved night and day. She never told anyone but Stephen of her grisly discovery that day at the bog. It would make the little ones too afraid, the boy said. And some of them might say something that would let Peter know, then he would slay them all. Cynthy's father sent small sums of money from time to time but of this she was unaware. The ogre, as all the children now termed Peter, never told her of the remittances, nor of the messages entrusted to him for delivery. She believed her parents had both been killed on their journey north. Once she tried to run away. Peter beat and kicked her till she fell unconscious. Mollie was terrified lest he destroy Cynthy as he had her little brother. Neither child nor parents dreamed that a few hard-earned dollars alone stood between the little girl and a horrible death. All the children were herded like sheep in the barn loft. Their accommodations there were only such as they contrived themselves. Each child, upon arrival, was permitted to retain what personal effects its parent or guardian had sent with it. These ultimately wore out and were never replenished. If any person ever sent money for their replenishment it was appropriated by Peter. As a result the children were a motley assortment of little human scare-crows whose preternatural common sense and judgment seemed to increase in proportion to the physical restraints and burdens placed upon them. For this Mollie and Stephen were largely responsible. Mollie had a vivid imagination. She could weave wonderful stories. From her sprite-like, adored mother she had inherited her great capacity to love, soothe and entertain children. They were never too dirty for her to kiss, never too naughty for her to quiet. It was a gift, an instinct, and the circumstances under which she was now forced to live developed it to an amazing extent. Stephen's little store of knowledge and his fondness for books proved of incalculable benefit to all. But not one of the little band of waifs realized that the tired, broken-down boy who, in the security of the barn loft, taught them their letters, was eating his heart out in sombre brooding over his own bitter disappointment. The story books he had secreted were still cherished jealously. No one but Mollie was ever permitted to touch them. She could read every story they contained. At least she thought she could. In truth, she recited them glibly, not always in strict accord with the printed text and usually with many interpolations and quaint interpretations of her own.