"Yes, preacher," she answered, wagging her head.

"Good-night, preacher." But they had gone only a few steps when there was a wail.

Turning her head to watch him out of sight, Molly had tripped, and now all that was left of the beer was a yellow scum of froth on the dry ground.

The jug was unbroken, but the child could find no comfort in that.
"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.