"Pa, reckon we'll get rid of Molly this year?" Matthew bellowed. "When Molly moves out, reckon you'll just have to marry the Widder Trough, not that that sounds like a bad idea anyway," he snickered. "That Louise Trough ain't something that a man would turn away from every day in the week." Louise was the Widow Trough's daughter. Molly didn't like Louise, not just because she was prettier than Molly and had all the boys agog over her, but because Louise was what Molly very definitely considered a snob and a very "fast" girl besides. Mr. Southland didn't answer, being taciturn by nature and seldom speaking unless he felt it was his duty. "Reckon if we don't get rid of Molly this year, we never will. Most of the bucks around here are done married, and Molly shore ain't gettin' no better lookin'," Matthew snorted. "Molly, you gonna ask some buck to the church picnic tomorrow?" "Molly will make some man a fine wife," Mark said quietly. "Until then, she is certainly needed here on the farm. I don't know what you would do without Molly to wait on you." "I suppose she don't wait hand and foot on you, too," Matthew sneered. "Who do you think you are, tellin' other people what they need?" "That's enough, boys," Mr. Southland interjected. "Time's a wastin'. and we got to get that south forty done today before it starts to rain again." The three men shoveled the remainder of their eggs into their mouths, gulped down the coffee, and hurried out, leaving Molly alone in the ancient kitchen. The young girl sighed deeply as she allowed her eyes to follow the lines of the square-built kitchen, glancing from the ancient, wood-burning cookstove to the upright kitchen cabinet with the flour bin door swung slightly open, to the sawed-off dresser with the galvanized bucket and family dipper sitting alongside the washpan, and back to the rough, homemade kitchen table with the faded red-and-white checked oil-cloth. Molly rose slowly from the table, blew out the kerosene lamp, and reminded herself to wash the sooted lamp chimney when she washed the breakfast dishes She began stacking the plates, noticing as always the dried yellow of egg, smeared bacon grease, coffee rings, and spilled sugar left at Matt's side of the table. "Somehow Matt just don't look like the kind who would use sugar in his coffee," Molly thought for the thousandth time. She squeezed out the dish rag and finished wiping the table. As she hurriedly cleaned the kitchen, she thought of the many things she must get done today. Molly's mind returned to Matt's ignored question about the church picnic tomorrow. "No," she thought, "I wouldn't ask anybody even if there was somebody to ask. I'm not going to face the thought of being turned down again." She remembered the time when Louise Trough had insisted Molly ask Jack Morgan to a school party. Since Jack was the homeliest boy in class, Molly thought he might accept. "I never will forget that," Molly thought, still cringing at the memory. "He didn't even answer me, just laughed and walked off." Stashing the broom behind the door, Molly walked toward Matt 40 and Mark's bedroom. Mark had, as always, made his bed, his side of the room in its usual neat arrangement, while Matt's side was a continual disorder, his bed not only unmade but the blankets thrown over the foot, the sheet rolled down half-way off the mattress, and the pillow on the floor. "He must be part pig," Molly thought. "I don't see how anyone can live as dirty as he does and seem to enjoy it." She tossed the blankets on the floor and began straightening the bed. The room cleaned, she crossed the hall to her Pa's room, hastily made the bed, and then went into her own room. The old brass bedstead gleamed brightly as the sun streaming through the window slashed across the headboard, making a diagonal pattern to the floor, the dust particles filtering lazily in the sunlight. Molly noticed that her bed was already made, then realized Mark must have made it to surprise her for her birthday. "He must have come in while I was cooking breakfast," Molly thought. Then her eyes darted to the pillow. Lying on top of the old pink cotton spread was a package wrapped in white tissue paper, tied with white twine. She gasped loudly as she dashed for the package, her fingers nervously tearing off the string. She sat for a moment on the side of the bed, holding the little package close, savoring the joy of the still-unknown gift. "It's from Mark," she thought. "He's the only person who ever thinks to give me gifts since Ma died." She remembered the gifts he had given her. "Never much compared to the things lots of girls get," she thought, "but all he had to give." There was the year he had given her a box of marbles, just odds and ends he had picked up from the school yard; the year he had tied pussy willows together and put them in a painted tin can; and, best of all, her thirteenth year, when he had somehow managed to buy her a mystery story about a movie star. She had read it and reread it until she knew almost every page by heart. She sat holding the unopened package, then gently began to turn back the white, crackling sheets, realizing it was the same paper he had used that year to wrap her book in. She smiled as she pictured him gently searching through her dresser drawers, carefully lifting her clothes until his fingers felt the crispness of the paper. When she could stand the suspense no longer, her hand smoothed back the last thickness of paper, her fingers groping for the gift. She felt the satin smoothness of the biggest red bow she had ever seen. "Oh...hh" she breathed softly, "Oh, Mark, it's so pretty." Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and she grasped the bow up quickly before the tears could stain and mar the beauty of the glossy ribbon. Molly didn't know how long she sat there, but suddenly she heard her Pa saying, "The world don't stop 'cause you got a birthday." She folded the ribbon back in the tissue paper, placing it tenderly inside her top dresser drawer next to her cotton underwear before hurrying back to the kitchen, stopping long enough to restoke the fire and to add another slab of wood. The fire blazing, Molly crossed the dog trot connecting the smokehouse with the kitchen and unlatched the smokehouse door. She hesitated inside, her eyes acclimating themselves 41