"I reckon I'm goin' ter die," he said, wearily, as she placed cool wet cloths on his head after they had all mounted to the loft in the evening. And Mollie, fighting back her tears, assembled the children about her and told them for the hundredth time the story of the sparrows. "God never does nothin' wrong," she assured her rapt little auditors. "I know, because my Mammy told me afore she went to sleep, that time I tol' yo' about. An' she said thet when folks thinks He's done whut ain't right, or ain't a-goin' ter give 'em whut they want, ef yo' jes' wait an' keep on thinkin' 'bout how He loves His sparrows, some day yo'll see a mighty lot o' good come out o' whut yo' war thinkin' war all wrong'. "Now we've ben a-sayin' our pra'rs ever sense we ben here--me an' Splutters an' yo'all,--an' God hain't done nothin' yit, ter help us." Tears were rolling down Mollie's cheeks. She paused to wipe them away. "I ain't a-faultin' Him," she continued, softly, "for my Mammy knowed Him an' she never tol' lies. But Stevie's gettin' most wore out, an' yo'-all es hungry an' sumpin's got ter be did. Now me an' you-uns is a-goin' ter ast God ter please git a soon start an' send thet mighty lot o' good out o' what shorely es all wrong now. We'll say all th' pra'rs we know, an' atterward we'll git ter work an' make us another kite--a bigger one with a longer tail. An' we'll send hit up the fust day old Pete's away. Thet other kite mos' likely got ketched in a tree." It was a pitiful little group, for then, as ever, there was a baby, a "least one", for Mollie to hold in her arms. Little Amy, so near the age of the unfortunate Buddy that Mollie would not trust the infant out of her sight a moment, lay across her knee, sleeping fitfully. Mollie arose and placed the sleeping baby upon a pile of bedding, then knelt, with the children about her, near the pallet of straw on which poor Stephen lay, too ill and weary to comprehend what was going on about him. Down below, Walter, the horse, whinnied softly in his sleep. Outside, the watch-dog Peter had procured after Cynthy's attempt to run away bayed dismally. He was as lonely and homesick as the children. He would have liked to be with them. Mollie, who had been surreptitiously feeding the forlorn animal, remembered him in the fervent appeal which she poured forth for their deliverance from the hands of their captor and tormentors. "An' please, God," she begged in conclusion, "when yo' hev looked atter us children, don't fergit Tige, fer he wants ter be a good dawg an' Pete won't giv' him a chanst."