With the thought he flung it, as if it had stung him, out into the bog. For a moment it lay there, floating on the surface of the black ooze, sustained by the filmy lightness of its frock. Then the grim mass reached upward, little by little, over the small body, sucking it ever downward until finally, only the sweet, smiling face and one tiny, outstretched arm remained visible. From where he stood, the monster leered and gloated. Still the sweet face smiled its tranquil smile, the little arm waved and beckoned. The black mud lapped on. Now, the little face was blotted out. Only the arm remained. Would it never disappear? It was going--slowly. Nothing was left now but the pink, fairy-like hand. It moved with the fluctuations of the engulfing mud. Was it waving in farewell? Was it mocking him? Well, let it. It wouldn't wave long. There! With a gentle, tragic flutter the pathetic little fingers sank from view. The mud closed over the spot where they went down. It was gone! The doll that a fond mother had thought would be pressed by her baby's lips had disappeared forever. For a moment the monster remained staring at the spot as if some unseen influence emanating from the doll were tugging at him, striving to drag him down with it into the depths. "Bah!" he ejaculated, ridding himself of the quid of tobacco in his mouth. "Ter hell with hit!" Then he took the soiled and crumpled dollar bills that the poor mother had sent him, counted them, smoothed them carefully and placed them safely within the breast pocket of his coat. When he entered the castle gate the bigger and better kite that carried upon its face a message to God from His little ones had been safely flung to the breeze. CHAPTER XIII WHAT HAPPENED TO SPLUTTERS "Mine enemies chased me sore, like a bird without cause."--Lam. iii, 52 Clang! Clang! Clang! The jangling sound resounded to every part of the Grimes farm. Someone sought entrance at the castle gate. Maria heard the bell but she paid no heed. No one ever opened the gate any more but the ogre, himself. Ambrose heard the clamor, but the only interest it had for him was that of seeing all the children scurry for the barn loft. He liked to impede them in their progress and laugh at their tears when his father beat them for their delay. They were coming now, running along like frightened sheep, with Mollie as shepherdess. Peter was watching them. He was waiting to open the gate and admit the pilgrim. "Hurry, chil'un, hurry," gasped Mollie, breathless from her exertions, with the baby on her arm, Leathie by one hand and another of the younger children stumbling along just ahead. The bell rang again. The ogre was waving his long arms in silent command for them to make haste. They would hear from him later.