"Where's your mother?" Sarah asked of the ten-year-old girl.
"Dead. Died when my little brother was born."
"Who takes care of you?"
"Father and—God. Father says God does most of it."
"Oh dear!" Sarah exclaimed, with a look of pity.
They had a good dinner of fresh biscuit and honey and venison and eggs and tea. While they were eating Samson told Brimstead of the land of plenty.
After dinner, while Brimstead was bringing the team, one of his children, the blonde, pale, tattered little girl of six, climbed into the wagon seat and sat holding a small rag doll, which Sarah had given her. When they were ready to go she stubbornly refused to get down.
"I'm goin' away," she said. "I'm goin' aw-a-ay off to find my mother. I don't like this place. There ain't no Santa Claus here. I'm goin' away."
She clung to the wagon seat and cried loudly when her father took her down.
"Ain't that enough to break a man's heart?" he said with a sorrowful look.