"I've spilt dad's beer," she said, sobbing, and sinking down in a forlorn heap on the ground.
John knelt beside her, and tried to comfort her. "Never mind; we'll go and tell dad it was an accident."
But Molly only shook her head. "No," she said, catching her breath, as she tried to speak, "'t won't do no good. He'll beat me. He's getting over a drunk, so he wanted his beer, and he'll lick me."
John looked down sadly at the child for a moment. "I will take you home, Helen, and then I will go back with Molly."
"Oh," Helen answered quickly, "let me go with you?"
"No," John replied, "no, dear. You heard what Molly said? I—I cannot bear that your eyes should see—what must be seen in Tom Davis's house to-night. We will go to the parsonage now, and then Molly and I will tell 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.