l
dad about the beer." He lifted the child gently in his arms, and stooped
again for the pitcher. "Come, Helen," he said, and they went towards the
parsonage. Helen entered reluctantly, but without a protest, and then
stood watching them down the street. The little yellow head had fallen on
John's shoulder, and Molly was almost asleep.

Tom Davis's house was one of a row near the river. They had been built on
piles, so as to be out of the way of the spring "rise," but the jar and
shock of the great cakes of ice floating under them when the river opened
up had given them an unsteady look, and they leaned and stumbled so that
the stained plastering had broken on the walls, and there were large
cracks by the window frames. The broken steps of Molly's home led up to
a partly open door. One panel had been crushed in in a fight, and the
knob was gone, and the door-posts were dirty and greasy. The narrow
windows were without shutters, and only a dingy green paper shade hid
the room within.

Molly opened her sleepy eyes long enough to say, "Don't let dad lick me!"

"No, little Molly," John said, as he went into the small entry, and
knocked at the inner door. "Don't be afraid."

"Come in," a woman's voice answered.

Mrs. Davis was sitting by the fireless stove, on which she had placed her
small lamp, and she was trying by its feeble light to do some mending.
Her face had that indifference to its own hopelessness which forbids all
hope for it. She looked up as they entered.

"Oh, it's the preacher," she said, with a flickering smile about her
fretful lips; and she rose, brushing some lifeless strands of hair behind
her ears, and pulling down her sleeves, which were rolled above her thin
elbows.

"Molly has had an accident, Mrs. Davis," John explained, putting the
child gently down, and steadying her on her uncertain little feet, until
her eyes were fairly opened. "So I came home with her to say how it
happened."

"She spilt the beer, I reckon," said Mrs. Davis, glancing at the empty
jug John had put on the table. "Well, 't ain't no great loss. He's
asleep, and won't know nothing about it. He'll have forgot he sent her
by mornin'." She jerked her head towards one side of the room, where her
husband was lying upon the floor. "Go get the preacher a chair, Molly.
Not that one; it's got a leg broke. Oh, you needn't speak low," she
added, as John thanked the child softly; "he won't hear nothing before
to-morrow."

The lumbe