The youngster wore but a single garment, a shapeless calico dress that fell scarcely to her knees.

She was Sonya, the seven-year-old daughter of one of the Place's extra workmen, a Slav named Ruloff who lived in the mile-distant village, across the lake.
Ruloff, following the custom of his peasant ancestors, put his whole family to work, from the time its members were old enough to toddle.
And he urged them against the vice of laziness by means of an ever-ready fist, or a still readier toe or a harness strap--whichever of the trio of energy producers chanced to be handiest.

In coming over to the Place, for a month's labor, during the harvest season, he brought along every day his youngest and most fragile offspring, Sonya.
Under her father's directions and under his more drastic modes of encouragement, the little girl was of much help to him in his doily toil.
Twice, the Master had caught him punishing her for undue slowness in carrying out some duty too heavy for her frail strength.

On both times he had stopped the brutal treatment.

On the second, he had told Ruloff he would not only discharge him, but assist his departure from the Place with a taste of boot-toe medicine, if ever the Slav should lay a hand on the child again during his period of employment there.