Douglas and Mandy were overjoyed to see the colour creeping back to her cheeks.

She joined the pastor again in his visits to the poor. The women of the town would often see them passing and would either whisper to each other, shrug their shoulders, or lift their eyebrows with smiling insinuations; but Polly and the pastor were too much absorbed in each other to take much notice of what was going on about them.

They had not gone for their walk to-day, because Mandy had needed Polly to help make ready for the social to be held in the Sunday-school-room to-night.

Early in the afternoon, Polly had seen Douglas shut himself up in the study, and she was sure that he was writing; so when the village children stopped in on the way from school for Mandy's new-made cookies, she used her customary trick to get them away. "Tag—you're it!" she cried, and then dashed out the back door, pursued by the laughing, screaming youngsters. Mandy followed the children to the porch and stood looking after them, as the mad, little band scurried about the back yard, darted in and out amongst the trees, then up the side of the wooded hill, just beyond the church.

The leaves once more were red and yellow on the trees, but to-day the air was warm, and the children were wearing their summer dresses. Polly's lithe, girlish figure looked almost tall by comparison with the children about her. She wore a plain, simple gown of white, which Mandy had helped her to make. It had been cut ankle-length, for Polly was now seventeen. Her quaint, old-fashioned manner, her serious eyes, and her trick of knotting her heavy, brown hair low on her neck, made her seem older.

Mandy waited until the children had disappeared over the hill, then began bustling about looking for the step-ladder which Hasty had left under the vines of the porch. It had been a busy day at the parsonage. A social always meant perturbation for Mandy. She called sharply to Hasty, as he came down the path which made a short cut to the village:

"So's you'se back, is you?" she asked, sarcastically.

"Sure, I'se back," answered Hasty, good-naturedly, as he sank upon an empty box that had held some things for the social, and pretended to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.

"Masse John done send you to de post office two hours ago," said Mandy, as she took the letters and papers from his hand. "Five minutes is plenty ob time for any nigger to do dat job."

"I done been detained," Hasty drawled.

"You'se always 'tained when dar's any work a-goin' on," Mandy snapped at him.

"Whar's Miss Polly?" Hasty asked, ignoring Mandy's reference to work.

"Nebber you mind 'bout Miss Polly. She don't want you. Jes' you done fetch that step-ladder into de Sunday-school-room."

"But I wants her," Hasty insisted. "I'se been on very 'ticular business what she ought to know 'bout."

"Business?" she repeated. "What kind ob business?"

"I got to fix de Sunday-school-room," said Hasty, as he perceived her growing curiosity.

"You come heah, nigger!" Mandy called, determined that none of the village doings should escape her. "Out wid it!"

"Well, it's 'bout de circus," Hasty answered? seating himself again on the box. "Dey's showin' in Wakefield to-night, and next month dey's comin' here."

"Dat same circus what Miss Polly used to be wid?" Mandy's eyes grew large with curiosity.

"De very same," and Hasty nodded mysteriously.

"How you know dat?" Mandy was uncertain whether to believe him.

"'Cause da's a big, red wagon downtown wid de name ob de show painted on it. It's de advertisin' one what goes ahead wid all de pictures what dey pastes up."

"And you been hangin' 'roun' dat wagon?"

"I done thought Miss Polly might want to know."

"See here, lazy nigger, don' you go puttin' no circus notions into Miss Polly's head. She don' care no more 'bout dem things since her Uncle Toby done die. She done been satisfied right whar she am. Jes' you let her be."

"I ain't done nothin'," Hasty protested.

"Nebber do do nothin'," growled Mandy. "Go long now, and get a-work. Mos' four o'clock and dat Sunday-school-room ain't ready yet."

Hasty picked up the empty box and the step-ladder and went out through the gate. He had barely disappeared when a peal of laughter was heard from the hillside, and before Mandy could get out of the way, the youngsters came tumbling down the path again.

"Lawsy, lawsy," she gasped, as Polly circled around her, dodging the children. "You'se cheeks is red as pineys, honey."

"Tag! you're it!" Polly cried, as she touched the widow's auburn-haired offspring on the sleeve. There was much wailing when Willie passed the tag to little Jennie, the smallest girl in the crowd.

"I won't play no more," she sobbed; "'cause I's always it."

To comfort her, Polly began to sing an old circus song that the children had learned to love; and the little ones huddled about her in a circle to hear of the wonderful "Van Amberg" who used to "walk right into the lion's cage and put his head in the lion's mouth." The children were in a state of nerves that did credit to Polly as an entertainer, when Hasty broke in upon the song.

"When you get a minute I want ter tell yer somethin'."

"I have one right now." And turning to the eager mites at her side, Polly told them to run along into the grove, and that she'd come pretty soon to teach them a new game.

The youngsters went screaming and laughing on their way, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she threw herself down on the rustic seat that encircled the elm tree.

"What is it, Hasty?" she asked, suspecting that he was in trouble with Mandy.

"It's 'bout de circus," Hasty informed her bluntly.

"The circus?" She rose and crossed to him quickly.

"It's in Wakefield—en' nex' month it's a-comin' here."

"Here?" Polly gasped.

"I thought you'd want ter know," said Hasty, little surprised at her lack of enthusiasm.

"Yes, of course." She turned away and pretended to look at the flowers.

"Don' yous tell Mandy I been talkin' 'bout dat circus," said Hasty, uneasily. He was beginning to fear that he had made a mistake; but before Polly could answer, Mandy came out of the house, carrying baskets and food, which Hasty was to take to the Sunday-school-room. She looked at the girl's troubled face and drooping shoulders in surprise.

"What make you look so serious, Honey?"

"Just thinking," said Polly absently.

"My! Don' you look fine in your new dress!" She was anxious to draw the girl out of her reverie.

"Do you like it?" Polly asked eagerly, forgetting her depression of a moment before. "Do you think Mr. John will like it?"

"Masse John? Mercy me! He nebber takes no notice ob dem things. I done got a bran', spankin' new allapaca, one time, an' do you think HE ebber seed it? Lawsy, no! We might jes' well be goin' roun' like Mudder Eve for all dat man know." Polly looked disappointed. "But udder folks sees," Mandy continued, comfortingly, "an' you certainly look mighty fine. Why, you's just as good now as you was afore you got hurled!"

"Yes, I'm well now and able to work again." There was no enthusiasm in her tone, for Hasty's news had made her realise how unwelcome the old life would be to her.

"Work! You does work all de time. My stars! de help you is to Massa John."

"Do you think so? Do I help him?—Do I?"

"Of course you does. You tells him things to do in Sunday-school what the chillun like, an' you learns him to laugh and 'joy himself, an' a lot of things what nobody else could a-learned 'im."

"You mustn't say 'learned him,'" Polly corrected; "you must say 'taught him.' You can't 'learn' anybody anything. You can only 'teach' them."

"Lordy sakes! I didn't know dat." She rolled her large eyes at her young instructress, and saw that Polly looked very serious. "She's gwine ter have anudder one a dem 'ticlar spells" thought Mandy, and she made ready to protest.

"See here, ain't you nebber——"

She was interrupted by a quick "Have you never" from Polly.

"It dun make no difference what you say," Mandy snapped, "so long as folks understands you." She always grew restive under these ordeals; but Polly's firm controlled manner generally conquered.

"Oh, yes, it does," answered Polly. "I used to think it didn't; but it does. You have to say things in a certain way or folks look down on you."

"I's satisfied de way I be," declared Mandy, as she plumped herself down on the garden bench and began to fidget with resentment.

"The way I am," Polly persisted, sweetly.

"See here, chile, is day why you been a-settin' up nights an' keepin de light burnin'?"

"You mustn't say 'setting up;' you must say 'sitting up.' Hens set——"

"So do I," interrupted Mandy; "I's doin' it NOW." For a time she preserved an injured silence, then turned upon Polly vehemently. "If I had to think ob all dat ere foolishness eber' time I open my mouth, I'd done been tongue-tied afore I was born."

"I could teach you in no time," volunteered Polly, eagerly.

"I don't want to be teached," protested Mandy, doggedly. "Hast Jones says I's too smart anyhow. Men don't like women knowin' too much—it skeers 'em. I's good enough for my old man, and I ain't a-tryin' to get nobody else's," Mandy wound up flatly.

"But he'd like you all the better," persisted Polly, laughing.

"I don' WANT to be liked no better by NO nigger," snapped Mandy. "I's a busy woman, I is." She made for the house, then curiosity conquered her and she came back to Polly's side. "See here, honey, whose been l'arnin' you all dem nonsense?"

"I learn from Mr. Douglas. I remember all the things he tells me, and at night I write them down and say them over. Do you see this, Mandy?" She took a small red book from her belt and put it into Mandy's black chubby fists.

"I see some writin', if dat's what you mean," Mandy answered, helplessly.

"These are my don'ts," Polly confided, as she pointed enthusiastically to worn pages of finely written notes.

"You'se WHAT, chile?"

"The things I mustn't do or say."

"An' you'se been losin' yoah beauty sleep for dem tings?" Mandy looked incredulous.

"I don't want Mr. John to feel ashamed of me," she said with growing pride.

"Well, you'd catch Mandy a-settin' up for——"

"Oh, oh! What did I tell you, Mandy?" Polly pointed reproachfully to the reminder in the little red book. It was a fortunate thing that Willie interrupted the lesson at this point, for Mandy's temper was becoming very uncertain. The children had grown weary waiting for Polly, and Willie had been sent to fetch her. Polly offered to help Mandy with the decorations, but Willie won the day, and she was running away hand in hand with him when Douglas came out of the house.

"Wait a minute!" he called. "My, how fine you look!" He turned Polly about and surveyed the new gown admiringly.

"He did see it! He did see it!" cried Polly, gleefully.

"Of course I did. I always notice everything, don't I, Mandy?"

"You suah am improvin' since Miss Polly come," Mandy grunted.

"Come, Willie!" called the girl, and ran out laughing through the trees.

"What's this?" Douglas took the small book from Mandy's awkward fingers, and began to read: "'Hens set—'" He frowned.

"Oh, dem's jes' Miss Polly's 'don'ts,'" interrupted Mandy, disgustedly.

"Her 'don'ts'?"

"She done been set—sit—settin' up nights tryin' to learn what you done tole her," stuttered Mandy.

"Dear little Polly," he murmured, then closed the book and put it into his pocket.



Chapter IX

DOUGLAS was turning toward the house when the Widow Willoughby came through the wicker gate to the left of the parsonage, carrying bunting for the social. She was followed by Miss Perkins with a bucket of pickles, which Mandy promptly placed on top of Mrs. Elverson's ice cream. The women explained that they had come to put the finishing touches to the decorations. If anything was needed to increase Mandy's dislike of the widow, it was this announcement.

Mrs. Willoughby was greatly worried because her children had not been home since the afternoon school session. Upon learning that they were with Polly, she plainly showed her displeasure; and Douglas dispatched Mandy for them. She saw that her implied distrust of Polly had annoyed him, and she was about to apologise, when two of the deacons arrived on the scene, also carrying baskets and parcels for the social.

Strong led the way. He always led the way and always told Elverson what to think. They had been talking excitedly as they neared the parsonage, for Strong disapproved of the recent changes which the pastor had made in the church service. He and Douglas had clashed more than once since the baseball argument, and the deacon had realised more and more that he had met a will quite as strong as his own. His failure to bend the parson to his way of thinking was making him irritable, and taking his mind from his business.

"Can you beat that!" he would exclaim as he turned away from some disagreement with Douglas, his temper ruffled for the day.

Polly was utterly unconscious of the unfriendly glances cast in her direction as she came running into the garden, leading the widow's two children.

She nodded gaily to Julia Strong, who was coming through the gate, then hurried to Mrs. Willoughby, begging that the children be allowed to remain a little longer. She was making up a new game, she said, and needed Willie and Jennie for the set.

"My children do not play in promiscuous games," said the widow, icily.

"Oh, but this isn't pro-pro-pro"—Polly stammered. "It's a new game. You put two here, and two here, and——"

"I don't care to know." The widow turned away, and pretended to talk to Julia.

"Oh!" gasped Polly, stunned by the widow's rebuff.

She stood with bowed head in the centre of the circle. The blood flew from her cheeks, then she turned to go.

Douglas stepped quickly to her side. "Wait a minute," he said. She paused, all eyes were turned upon them. "Is this a game that grown-ups can play?"

"Why, yes, of course."

"Good! Then I'll make up your set. I need a little amusement just now. Excuse me," he added, turning to the deacons. Then he ran with her out through the trees.

The deacons and the women stared at each other, aghast.

"Well, what do you think of that?" said Mrs. Willoughby, as the flying skirts of the girl and the black figure of the man disappeared up the path.

"I think it's scandalous, if you are talking to me," said Miss Perkins. "The idea of a full-grown parson a-runnin' off to play children's games with a circus ridin' girl!"

"She isn't such a child," sneered Julia.

"It's ENOUGH to make folks talk," put in Mrs. Willoughby, with a sly look at the deacons.

"And me a-waitin' to discuss the new church service," bellowed Strong.

"And me a-waiting to give him Mrs. Elverson's message," piped Elverson.

"The church bore all this in silence so long as that girl was sick," snapped Miss Perkins. "But now she's perfectly well, and still a-hanging on. No wonder folks are talking."

"Who's talking?" thundered Strong.

"Didn't you know?" simpered Mrs. Willoughby, not knowing herself nor caring, so long as the suspicion grew.

"Know what?" yelled the excited deacon. Mrs. Willoughby floundered. Miss Perkins rushed into the breach.

"Well, if I was deacon of this church, it seems to me I'd know something about what's going on in it."

"What IS goin' on?" shrieked the now desperate deacon.

The women looked at him pityingly, exchanged knowing glances, then shook their heads at his hopeless stupidity.

Strong was not accustomed to criticism. He prided himself upon his acuteness, and was, above all, vain about his connection with the church. He looked from one woman to the other. He was seething with helpless rage. The little deacon at his side coughed nervously. Strong's pent up wrath exploded. "Why didn't YOU tell me, Elverson, that people was a-talkin'," he roared in the frightened man's ear.

Elverson sputtered and stammered, but nothing definite came of the sounds; so Strong again turned to Miss Perkins:

"What is going on?" he demanded.

The spinster shrugged her shoulders and lifted her eyes heavenward, knowing that nothing could so madden the deacon as this mysterious inference of things too terrible to mention. She was right. Strong uttered a desperate "Bah!" and began pacing up and down the garden with reckless strides.

Mrs. Willoughby watched him with secret delight, and when he came to a halt, she wriggled to his side with simpering sweetness.

"What COULD folks say?" she asked. "A minister and a young circus riding girl living here like this with no one to—" She found no words at this point and Strong, now thoroughly roused, declared that the congregation should have no further cause for gossip, and went out quickly in search of Douglas.

When Strong was gone, Elverson looked at the set faces of the women, and attempted a weak apology for the pastor. "I dare say the young man was very lonely—very—before she came."

"Lonely?" snapped Miss Perkins. "Well, if HE was LONELY, I didn't know it."

The deacon excused himself nervously, and went to join Strong.

The women gathered up their buntings, and retired with bland smiles to the Sunday-school-room, feeling that they had accomplished enough for the time being.

Strong and Elverson crossed the yard, still in search of the pastor. They turned at the sound of fluttering leaves and beheld Douglas, hatless, tearing down the path. Strong called to him, but Douglas darted quickly behind the hedge. The deacons looked at one another in speechless astonishment. Presently the silence was broken by the distant voice of Polly counting from one to one hundred. The secret was out! The pastor, a leader of the church, was playing hide-and-seek.

"Mr. Douglas!" shouted Strong, when his breath had returned.

"Hush, hush!" whispered Douglas, looking over the hedge. He peeped cautiously about him, then came toward the men with a sigh of relief. "It's all right. She has gone the other way."

"It'll be a good thing for you if she never comes back," said Strong, and Douglas's quick ear caught an unpleasant meaning in his tone.

"What's that?" the pastor asked, in a low, steady voice.

"We don't like some of the things that are going on here, and I want to talk to you about 'em."

"Very well, but see if you can't talk in a lower key."

"Never mind about the key," shouted Strong, angrily.

"But I DO mind." Something in his eyes made the deacon lower his voice.

"We want to know how much longer that girl is goin' to stay here?"

"Indeed! And why?" The colour was leaving Douglas's face, and his jaw was becoming very square.

"Because she's been here long enough."

"I don't agree with you there."

"Well, it don't make no difference whether you do or not. She's got to go."

"Go?" echoed Douglas.

"Yes, sir-e-bob. We've made up our minds to that."

"And who do you mean by 'we'?"

"The members of this congregation," replied Strong, impatiently.

"Am I to understand that YOU are speaking for THEM?" There was a deep frown between the young pastor's eyes. He was beginning to be perplexed.

"Yes, and as deacon of this church."

"Then, as deacon of this church, you tell the congregation for me that that is MY affair."

"Your affair!" shouted Strong. "When that girl is living under the church's roof, eating the church's bread!"

"Just one moment! You don't quite understand. I am minister of this church, and for that position I receive, or am supposed to receive, a salary to live on, and this parsonage, rent free, to live in. Any guests that I may have here are MY guests, and NOT guests of the church. Remember that, please."

There was an embarrassing silence. The deacons recalled that the pastor's salary WAS slightly in arrears. Elverson coughed meekly. Strong started.

"You keep out of this, Elverson!" he cried. "I'm running this affair and I ain't forgetting my duty nor the parson's."

"I shall endeavour to do MY duty as I see it," answered Douglas, turning away and dismissing the matter.

"Your duty is to your church," thundered Strong.

"You're right about that, Deacon Strong'" answered Douglas, wheeling about sharply, "and my duty to the church is reason enough for my acting exactly as I am doing in this case."

"Is your duty to the church the ONLY reason you keep that girl here?"

"No, there are other reasons."

"I thought so."

"You've heard her story—you MUST have heard. She was left with me by an old clown who belonged in the circus where she worked. Before he died he asked me to look after her. She has no one else. I shall certainly do so."

"That was when she was hurt. She's well now, and able to go back where she came from. Do you expect us to have our young folks associatin' with a circus ridin' girl?"

"So, that's it!" cried the pastor, with a pitying look. "You think this child is unfit for your homes because she was once in a circus. For some reason, circus to you spells crime. You call yourself a Christian, Deacon Strong, and yet you insist that I send a good, innocent girl back to a life which you say is sinful. I'm ashamed of you, Strong—I'm ashamed of you!"

"That talk don't do no good with me," roared Strong. He was desperate at being accused of an unchristian attitude.

"I ain't askin' you to send her back to the circus. I don't care WHERE you send her. Get her away from HERE, that's all."

"Not so long as she wishes to stay."

"You won't?" Strong saw that he must try a new attack. He came close to Douglas and spoke with a marked insinuation. "If you was a friend to the girl, you wouldn't want the whole congregation a-pointin' fingers at her."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're living here alone with her and it looks bad—bad for the girl, and bad for YOU—and folks is talkin'."

"Are you trying to tell me that my people are evil-minded enough to think that I—" Douglas stopped. He could not frame the question. "I don't believe it," he concluded shortly.

"You'll be MADE to believe it if you don't get rid of that girl."

"Do YOU believe it?" He turned upon the little man at his side! "Do you believe it, Elverson?"

Elverson had been so accustomed to Strong monopolising the conversation, that he had become hopelessly lost as the discussion went on, and the sudden appeal to him all but paralysed his power of speech. He was still gurgling and sputtering when Strong interrupted, impatiently.

"It makes no difference whether we believe it or not. We're going to do our duty by the church, and that girl must leave or——"

"Or I must." Douglas pieced out Strong's phrase for himself. "That threat doesn't frighten me at all, deacon. After what you have said, I should refuse to remain in this church"—the deacon stepped forward eagerly—"were it not that I realise more than ever before how much you need me, how much you ignorant, narrow-minded creatures need to be taught the meaning of true Christianity." The deacon was plainly disappointed.

"Is it possible?" gasped Elverson, weakly.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked Strong, when he could trust himself to speak again.

"I shall do what is best for Miss Polly," said the pastor quietly but firmly.

He turned away to show that the interview was at an end. Strong followed him. Douglas pointed to the gate with a meaning not to be mistaken. "Good afternoon, deacon."

Strong hesitated. He looked at the pastor, then at the gate, then at the pastor again. "I'll go," he shouted; "but it ain't the end!" He slammed the gate behind him.

"Quite so, quite so," chirped Elverson, not having the slightest idea of what he was saying. He saw the frigid expression on the pastor's face, he coughed behind his hat, and followed Strong.



Chapter X

Douglas dropped wearily onto the rustic bench. He sat with drooped head and unseeing eyes. He did not hear Polly as she scurried down the path, her arms filled with autumn leaves. She glanced at him, dropped the bright-coloured foliage, and slipped quickly to the nearest tree. "One, two, three for Mr. John," she cried, as she patted the huge, brown trunk.

"Is that you, Polly?" he asked absently.

"Now, it's your turn to catch me," she said, lingering near the tree. The pastor was again lost in thought. "Aren't you going to play any more?" There was a shade of disappointment in her voice. She came slowly to his side.

"Sit here, Polly," he answered gravely, pointing to a place on the bench. "I want to talk to you."

"Now, I've done something wrong," she pouted. She gathered up her garlands and brought them to a place near his feet, ignoring the seat at his side. "You might just as well tell me and get it over."

"You couldn't do anything wrong," he answered, looking down at her.

"Oh, yes, I could—and I've done it—I can see it in your face. What is it?"

"What have you there?" he asked, trying to gain time, and not knowing how to broach the subject that in justice to her must be discussed.

"Some leaves to make garlands for the social," Polly answered more cheerfully. "Would you mind holding this?" She gave him one end of a string of leaves.

"Where are the children?"

"Gone home."

"You like the children very much, don't you, Polly?" Douglas was striving for a path that might lead them to the subject that was troubling him.

"Oh, no, I don't LIKE them, I LOVE them." She looked at him with tender eyes.

"You're the greatest baby of all." A puzzled line came between his eyes as he studied her more closely. "And yet, you're not such a child, are you, Polly? You're quite grown up, almost a young lady." He looked at her from a strange, unwelcome point of view. She was all of that as she sat at his feet, yearning and slender and fair, at the turning of her seventeenth year.

"I wonder how you would like to go way?" Her eyes met his in terror. "Away to a great school," he added quickly, flinching from the very first hurt that he had inflicted; "where there are a lot of other young ladies."

"Is it a place where you would be?" She looked up at him anxiously. She wondered if his "show" was about to "move on."

"I'm afraid not," Douglas answered, smiling in spite of his heavy heart.

"I wouldn't like any place without you," she said decidedly, and seemed to consider the subject dismissed.

"But if it was for your GOOD," Douglas persisted.

"It could never be for my good to leave you."

"But just for a little while," he pleaded. How was she ever to understand? How could he take from her the sense of security that he had purposely taught her to feel in his house?

"Not even for a moment," Polly answered, with a decided shake of her head.

"But you must get ahead in your studies," he argued.

She looked at him anxiously. She was beginning to be alarmed at his persistence.

"Maybe I've been playing too many periscous games."

"Not periscous, Polly, promiscuous."

"Pro-mis-cuous," she repeated, haltingly. "What does that mean?"

"Indiscriminate." He rubbed his forehead as he saw the puzzled look on her face. "Mixed up," he explained, more simply.

"Our game wasn't mixed up." She was thinking of the one to which the widow had objected. "Is it promiscuous to catch somebody?"

"It depends upon whom you catch," he answered with a dry, whimsical smile.

"Well, I don't catch anybody but the children." She looked up at him with serious, inquiring eyes.

"Never mind, Polly. Your games aren't promiscuous." She did not hear him. She was searching for her book.

"Is this what you are looking for?" he asked, drawing the missing article from his pocket.

"Oh!" cried Polly, with a flush of embarrassment. "Mandy told you."

"You've been working a long time on that."

"I thought I might help you if I learned everything you told me," she answered, timidly. "But I don't suppose I could."

"I can never tell you how much you help me, Polly."

"Do I?" she cried, eagerly.

"I can help more if you will only let me. I can teach a bigger class in Sunday-school now. I got to the book of Ruth to-day."

"You did?" He pretended to be astonished. He was anxious to encourage her enthusiasm.

"Um hum!" She answered solemnly. A dreamy look came into her eyes. "Do you remember the part that you read to me the first day I came?" He nodded. He was thinking how care-free they were that day. How impossible such problems as the present one would have seemed then. "I know every bit of what you read by heart. It's our next Sunday-school lesson."

"So it is."

"Do you think now that it would be best for me to go away?" She looked up into his troubled face.

"We'll see, we'll see," he murmured, then tried to turn her mind toward other things. "Come now, let's find out whether you DO know your Sunday-school lesson. How does it begin?" There was no answer. She had turned away with trembling lips. "And Ruth said"—he took her two small hands and drew her face toward him, meaning to prompt her.

"Entreat me not to leave thee," she pleaded. Her eyes met his. His face was close to hers. The small features before him were quivering with emotion. She was so frail, so helpless, so easily within his grasp. His muscles grew tense and his lips closed firmly. He was battling with an impulse to draw her toward him and comfort her in the shelter of his strong, brave arms. "They shan't!" he cried, starting toward her.

Polly drew back, overawed. Her soul had heard and seen the things revealed to each of us only once. She would never again be a child.

Douglas braced himself against the back of the bench.

"What was the rest of the lesson?" he asked in a firm, hard voice.

"I can't say it now," Polly murmured. Her face was averted; her white lids fluttered and closed.

"Nonsense, of course you can. Come, come, I'll help you." Douglas spoke sharply. He was almost vexed with her and with himself for the weakness that was so near overcoming them. "And Ruth said, 'Entreat me not to leave thee——'"

"'Or to return from following after thee.'" She was struggling to keep back the tears. "'For whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my' "—She stopped.

"That's right, go on," said Douglas, striving to control the unsteadiness in his own voice.

"Where thou diest, will I die'"—her arms went out blindly.

"Oh, you won't send me away, will you?" she sobbed. "I don't want to learn anything else just—except—from you." She covered her face and slipped, a little, broken heap at his feet.

In an instant the pastor's strong arms were about her, his stalwart body was supporting her. "You shan't go away. I won't let you—I won't! Do you hear me, Polly? I won't!"

Her breath was warm against his cheek. He could feel her tears, her arms about him, as she clung to him helplessly, sobbing and quivering in the shelter of his strong embrace. "You are never going to leave me—never!"

A new purpose had come into his life, the realisation of a new necessity, and he knew that the fight which he must henceforth make for this child was the same that he must make for himself.



Chapter XI

"I'se goin' into de Sunday-school-room to take off dat ere widow's finishin' touches," said Mandy, as she came down the steps.

"All right!" called Douglas. "Take these with you, perhaps they may help." He gathered up the garlands which Polly had left on the ground. His eyes were shining, he looked younger than Mandy had ever seen him.

Polly had turned her back at the sound of Mandy's voice and crossed to the elm tree, drying her tears of happiness and trying to control her newly awakened emotions. Douglas felt intuitively that she needed this moment for recovery, so he piled the leaves and garlands high in Mandy's arms, then ran into the house with the light step of a boy.

"I got the set-sit-settin' room all tidied up," said Mandy as she shot a sly glance at Polly.

"That's good," Polly answered, facing Mandy at last and dimpling and blushing guiltily.

"Mos' de sociable folks will mos' likely be hangin' roun' de parsonage to-night, 'stead ob stayin' in de Sunday-school-room, whar dey belongs. Las' time dat ere Widow Willoughby done set aroun' all ebenin' a-tellin' de parson as how folks could jes' eat off'n her kitchen floor, an' I ups an' tells her as how folks could pick up a good, squar' meal off'n MANDY'S floor, too. Guess she'll be mighty careful what she says afore Mandy to-night." She chuckled as she disappeared down the walk to the Sunday-school-room.

Polly stood motionless where Mandy had left her. She hardly knew which way to turn. She was happy, yet afraid. She felt like sinking upon her knees and begging God to be good to her, to help her. She who had once been so independent, so self-reliant, now felt the need of direction from above. She was no longer master of her own soul, something had gone from her, something that would never, never come again. While she hesitated, Hasty came through the gate looking anxiously over his shoulder.

"Well, Hasty?" she said, for it was apparent that Hasty had something important on his mind.

"It's de big one from de circus," he whispered, excitedly.

"The big one?"

"You know—De one what brung you."

"You don't mean—?" Polly's question was answered by Jim himself who had followed Hasty quickly through the gate. Their arms were instantly about each other. Jim forgot Hasty and every one in the world except Polly, and neither of them noticed the horrified Miss Perkins and the Widow Willoughby, who had been crossing the yard on their way from the Sunday-school-room with Julia.

"You're just as big as ever," said Polly, when she could let go of Jim long enough to look at him. "You haven't changed a bit."

"You've changed enough for both of us." He looked at the unfamiliar long skirts and the new way of doing her hair. "You're bigger, Poll; more grown up like."

"Oh, Jim!" She glanced admiringly at the new brown suit, the rather startling tie, and the neat little posy in Jim's buttonhole.

"The fellows said I'd have to slick up a bit if I was a-comin' to see you, so as not to make you ashamed of me. Do you like 'em?" he asked, looking down approvingly at his new brown clothes.

"Very much." For the first time Jim noticed the unfamiliar manner of her speech. He began to feel self-conscious. A year ago she would have said, "You bet!" He looked at her awkwardly. She hurried on: "Hasty told me you were showing in Wakefield. I knew you'd come to see me. How's Barker and all the boys?" She stopped with a catch in her throat, and added more slowly: "I suppose everything's different, now that Toby is gone."

"He'd a-liked to a-seen you afore he cashed in," Jim answered; "but maybe it was just as well he didn't. You'd hardly a-knowed him toward the last, he got so thin an' peeked like. He wasn't the same after we lost you, nobody was, not even Bingo."

"Have you still got Bingo?" she asked, through her tears.

"Yep, we got him," drawled Jim, "but he ain't much good no more. None of the other riders can get used to his gait like you was. There ain't nobody with the show what can touch you ridin', there never will be. Say, mebbe you think Barker won't let out a yell when he sees yer comin' back." Jim was jubilant now, and he let out a little yell of his own at the mere thought of her return. He was too excited to notice the look on Polly's face. "Toby had a notion before he died that you was never a-comin' back, but I told him I'd change all that once I seed yer, and when Barker sent me over here to-day to look arter the advertisin', he said he guessed you'd had all you wanted a' church folks. 'Jes' you bring her along to Wakefield,' he said, 'an' tell her that her place is waitin' for her,' and I will, too." He turned upon Polly with sudden decision. "Why, I feel jes' like pickin' yer up in my arms and carryin' you right off now."

"Wait, Jim!" She put one tiny hand on his arm to restrain him.

"I don't mean—not—to-day—mebbe"—he stammered, uncertainly, "but we'll be back here a-showin' next month."

"Don't look at me now," Polly answered, as the dog-like eyes searched her face, "because I have to say something that is going to hurt you, Jim."

"You're comin', ain't yer, Poll?" The big face was wrinkled and care-worn with trouble.

"No, Jim," she replied in a tone so low that he could scarcely hear her.

"You mean that you ain't NEVER comin' back?" He tried to realise what such a decision might mean to him.

"No, Jim." She answered tenderly, for she dreaded the pain that she must cause the great, good-hearted fellow. "You mustn't care like that," she pleaded, seeing the blank desolation that had come into his face. "It isn't because I don't love you just the same, and it was good of Barker to keep my place for me, but I can't go back."

He turned away; she clung to the rough, brown sleeve. "Why, Jim, when I lie in my little room up there at night"—she glanced toward the window above them—"and everything is peaceful and still, I think how it used to be in the old days, the awful noise and the rush of it all, the cheerless wagons, the mob in the tent, the ring with its blazing lights, the whirling round and round on Bingo, and the hoops, always the hoops, till my head got dizzy and my eyes all dim; and then the hurry after the show, and the heat and the dust or the mud and the rain, and the rumble of the wheels in the plains at night, and the shrieks of the animals, and then the parade, the awful, awful parade, and I riding through the streets in tights, Jim! Tights!" She covered her face to shut out the memory. "I couldn't go back to it, Jim! I just couldn't!" She turned away, her face still hidden in her hands. He looked at her a long while in silence.

"I didn't know how you'd come to feel about it," he said doggedly.

"You aren't ANGRY, Jim?" She turned to him anxiously, her eyes pleading for his forgiveness.

"Angry?" he echoed, almost bitterly. "I guess it couldn't ever come to that a-tween you an' me. I'll be all right." He shrugged his great shoulders. "It's just kinder sudden, that's all. You see, I never figured on givin' yer up, and when you said you wasn't comin' back, it kinder seemed as though I couldn't see nothin' all my life but long, dusty roads, and nobody in 'em. But it's all right now, and I'll just be gettin' along to the wagon."

"But, Jim, you haven't seen Mr. Douglas," Polly protested, trying to keep him with her until she could think of some way to comfort him.

"I'll look in on him comin' back," said Jim, anxious to be alone with his disappointment. He was out of the gate before she could stop him.

"Hurry back, won't you, Jim? I'll be waiting for you." She watched him going quickly down the road, his fists thrust into his brown coat pockets, and his hat pulled over his eyes. He did not look back, as he used to do, to wave a parting farewell, and she turned toward the house with a troubled heart. She had reached the lower step when Strong and Elverson approached her from the direction of the church.

"Was that feller here to take you back to the circus?" demanded Strong.

She opened her lips to reply, but before she could speak, Strong assured her that the congregation wouldn't do anything to stop her if she wished to go. He saw the blank look on her face. "We ain't tryin' to pry into none of your private affairs," he explained; "but my daughter saw you and that there feller a makin' up to each other. If you're calculatin' to run away with him, you'll save a heap of trouble for the parson by doin' it quick."

"The parson!"

"YOU can't blame the congregation for not wantin' him to keep you here. You got sense enough to see how it looks. HE'D see it, too, if he wasn't just plain, bull-headed. Well he'd better get over his stubbornness right now, if he don't we'll get another minister, that's all."

"Another minister? You don't mean—?" It was clear enough now. She recalled Douglas's troubled look of an hour ago. She remembered how he had asked if she couldn't go away. It was this that he meant when he promised not to give her up, no matter what happened. In an instant she was at the deacon's side pleading and terrified. "You wouldn't get another minister! Oh, please, Deacon Strong, listen to me, listen! You were right about Jim, he DID come to get me and I am going back to the circus—only you won't send Mr. Douglas away, you won't! Say you won't!" She was searching his eyes for mercy. "It wasn't HIS fault that I kept staying on. He didn't know how to get rid of me. He DID try, he tried only to-day."

"So he's comin' 'round," sneered Strong.

"Yes, yes, and you won't blame him any more, will you?" she hurried on anxiously. "You'll let him stay, no matter what he does, if I promise to go away and never, never come back again?"

"I ain't holdin' no grudge agin him," Strong grumbled. "He talks pretty rough sometimes, but he's been a good enough minister. I ain't forgettin' that."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Strong, thank you. I'll get my things; it won't take a minute." She was running up the steps when a sudden thought stopped her. She returned quickly to Strong. "We'd better not let him know just yet. You can tell him afterward. Tell him that I ran away—Tell him that——"

She was interrupted by Douglas, who came from the house. "Hello, Strong, back again?" he asked, in some surprise. Polly remained with her eyes fixed upon the deacon, searching for some way of escape. The pastor approached; she burst into nervous laughter. "What's the joke?" Douglas asked.

"It's only a little surprise that the deacon and I are planning." She tried to control the catch in her voice. "You'll know about it soon, won't he, deacon? Good afternoon, Mr. Strong!" She flew into the house, laughing hysterically.

Douglas followed her to the steps with a puzzled frown. It was unlike Polly to give way to her moods before others. "Have you gentlemen changed your minds about the little girl staying on?" he asked, uneasily.

"It's all right now," said Strong, seating himself with a complacent air.

"All right? How so?" questioned Douglas, more and more puzzled by the deacon's evident satisfaction.

"Because," said Strong, rising and facing the pastor, "because your circus-ridin' gal is goin' to leave you of her own accord."

"Have you been talking to that girl?" asked Douglas, sternly.

"I have," said Strong, holding his ground.

"See here, deacon, if you've been browbeating that child, I may forget that I'm a minister." The knuckles on Douglas's large fists grew whiter.

"She's goin', I tell yer, and it ain't because of what I said either. She's goin' back to the circus."

"I don't believe you."

"You would a-believed me if you'd seen the fellow that was just a-callin' on her, and her a-huggin' and a-kissin' of him and a-promisin' that she'd be a-waitin' for him here when he come back."

"You lie!" cried Douglas, taking a step toward the retreating deacon.

"There's the fellow now," cried Strong, as he pointed to the gate. "Suppose you ask him afore yer call me a liar."

Douglas turned quickly and saw Jim approaching. His face lighted up with relief at the sight of the big, lumbering fellow.

"How are yer, Mr. Douglas?" said Jim, awkwardly.

"You've seen Polly?" asked Douglas, shaking Jim cordially by the hand.

"Yes, I've seen her."

"The deacon here has an idea that Polly is going back to the circus with you." He nodded toward Strong, almost laughing at the surprise in store for him.

"Back to the circus?" asked Jim.

"Did she say anything to you about it?" He was worried by the bewilderment in Jim's manner.

Before Jim could reply, Polly, who had reached the steps in time to catch the last few words, slipped quickly between them. She wore her coat and hat, and carried a small brown satchel.

"Of course I did, didn't I, Jim?" she said, turning her back upon the pastor and motioning to Jim not to answer. Douglas gazed at her in astonishment.

"What do you mean?" he asked in a hoarse, strained voice. He glanced at the coat and hat. "Where are you going?"

Polly avoided his eyes and continued nervously to Jim.

"What made you come back? Why didn't you wait for me down the street? Now, you've spoiled everything." She pretended to be very vexed with him. The big fellow looked puzzled. He tried to protest, but she put a warning finger to her lips and pressed the little brown satchel into his hand. "It's no use," she went on hurriedly. "We might as well tell them everything now." She turned to Douglas and pretended to laugh. "You have found us out."

The deacons were slightly uneasy; the frown on Douglas's forehead was deepening.

"Oh, see how serious he looks," she teased, with a toss of her head toward the grim-visaged pastor.

"Is this some trick?" he demanded, sternly.

"Don't be angry," she pleaded. "Wish me luck."

She held out one small hand; he did not take it. She wavered, then she felt the eyes of the deacons upon her. Courage returned and she spoke in a firm, clear voice: "I am going to run away."

Douglas stepped before her and studied her keenly.

"Run away?" he exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes, to the circus with Jim."

"You couldn't DO such a thing," he answered, excitedly. "Why, only a moment ago you told me you would never leave me."

"Oh, but that was a moment ago," she cried, in a strained, high voice. "That was before Jim came. You see, I didn't know HOW I felt until I saw Jim and heard all about my old friends, how Barker is keeping my place for me, and how they all want to see me. And I want to see them, and to hear the music and the laughter and the clown songs—Oh, the clown songs!" She waltzed about, humming the snatch of melody that Mandy had heard the morning that Polly first woke in the parsonage.

"Ting, ling. That's how the bells ring, Ting, ling, pretty young thing."

She paused, her hands clasped behind her head, and gazed at them with a brave, little smile. "Oh, it's going to be fine! Fine!"

"You don't know what you're doing," said Douglas. He seized her roughly by the arm. Pain was making him brutal. "I won't LET you go! Do you hear me? I won't—not until you've thought it over."

"I have thought it over," Polly answered, meeting his eyes and trying to speak lightly. Her lips trembled. She could not bear for him to think her so ungrateful. She remembered his great kindness; the many thoughtful acts that had made the past year so precious to her.

"You've been awfully good to me, Mr. John." She tried to choke back a sob. "I'll never forget it—never! I'll always feel the same toward you. But you mustn't ask me to stay. I want to get back to them that knew me first—to my OWN! Circus folks aren't cut out for parsons' homes, and I was born in the circus. I love it—I love it!" She felt her strength going, and cried out wildly: "I want Bingo! I want to go round and round the ring! I want the lights and the music and the hoops! I want the shrieks of the animals, and the rumble of the wheels in the plains at night! I want to ride in the big parade! I want to live and die—just die—as circus folks die! I want to go back! I want to go back!"

She put out one trembling hand to Jim and rushed quickly through the gate laughing and sobbing hysterically and calling to him to follow.



Chapter XII

LONELY days followed Polly's desertion of the parsonage. Mandy went about her duties very quietly, feeling that the little comments which once amused the pastor had now become an interruption to thoughts in which she had no part. He would sit for hours with his head in his hands, taking no notice of what passed before him. She tried to think of new dishes to tempt his appetite, and shook her head sadly as she bore the untasted food back to the kitchen.

She sometimes found a portfolio of drawings lying open upon his study table. She remembered the zeal with which he had planned to remodel the church and parsonage, when he first came to them; how his enthusiasm had gradually died for lack of encouragement; and how he had at last put his books in a cupboard, where they grew dusty from long neglect. She marvelled at their reappearance now, but something in his set, far-away look made her afraid to inquire. Thus she went on from day to day, growing more impatient with Hasty and more silent with the pastor.

Mandy needed humor and companionship to oil the wheels of her humdrum life; there was no more laughter in the house, and she began to droop.

Polly had been away from the parsonage a month, when the complacency of the village was again upset by the arrival of the "Great American Circus."

There were many callers at the parsonage that day, for speculation was now at fever heat about the pastor. "Would he try to see her? had he forgotten her? and what had he ever found in her?" were a few of the many questions that the women were asking each other. Now, that the cause of their envy was removed, they would gladly have reinstated the pastor as their idol; for, like all truly feminine souls, they could not bear to see a man unhappy without wishing to comfort him, nor happy unless they were the direct cause of his state. "How dare any man be happy without me?" has been the cry of each woman since Eve was created to mate with Adam.

Douglas had held himself more and more aloof from the day of Polly's disappearance. He expressed no opinion about the deacons or their recent disapproval of him. He avoided meeting them oftener than duty required; and Strong felt so uncomfortable and tongue-tied in his presence that he, too, was glad to make their talks as few as possible.

Nothing was said about the pastor's plans for the future, or about his continued connection with the church, and the inquisitive sisterhood was on the point of exploding from an over-accumulation of unanswered questions.

He delivered his sermons conscientiously, called upon his poor, listened to the sorrows, real and fancied, of his parishioners, and shut himself up with his books or walked alone on the hill behind the church.

He had been absent all day, when Mandy looked out on the circus lot for the dozenth time, and saw that the afternoon performance was closing. It had driven her to desperation to learn that Miss Polly was not in the parade that morning, and to know that the pastor had made no effort to find out about her. For weeks both she and Hasty had hoped that the return of the circus might bring Polly back to them; but now it was nearly night and there had been no word from her. Why didn't she come running in to see them, as Mandy had felt so sure she would? Why had the pastor stayed away on the hills all day?

Unanswered questions were always an abomination to Mandy, so finally she drew a quarter from the knotted gingham rag that held her small wad of savings, and told Hasty "to go long to de show and find out 'bout Miss Polly."

She was anxiously waiting for him, when Deacon Strong knocked at the door for the second time that afternoon.

"Is Mr. Douglas back yet?' he asked.

"No, sah, he ain't," said Mandy, very shortly. She felt that Strong and Elverson had been "a-tryin' to spy on de parson all day," and she resented their visits more than she usually did.

"What time are you expectin' him?"

"I don't nebber spec' Massa Douglas till I sees him."

Strong grunted uncivilly, and went down the steps. She saw from the window that he met Elverson in front of the church.

"Dey sure am a-meanin' trouble," she mumbled.

The band had stopped playing; the last of the audience had straggled down the street. She opened the door and stood on the porch; the house seemed to suffocate her. What was keeping Hasty?

He came at last, but Mandy could tell from his gait that he brought unwelcome news.

"Ain't she dar?"

"She's wid 'em, all right," said Hasty.

"Yuh seed her?"

"Naw, I didn't done SEED her."

"What?"

"She want in de show."

"What you jes' tell me?"

"She's a-trabbelin' wid 'em, Mandy, but she didn't done ride."

"See heah, Hasty Jones, is dat ere chile sick?"

"I don' rightly know," said Hasty. "A great big man, what wored clothes like a gemmen, comed out wid a whip in his hand and says as how he's 'bliged to 'nounce anudder gal in Miss Polly's place. An' den he says as how de udder gal was jes' as good, an' den everybody look disappinted like, an' den out comes de udder gal on a hoss an' do tricks, an' I ain't heard no more 'bout Miss Polly."

"Why didn't you done ask somebody?"

"Warn't nobody ter ask but de man what wuz hurryin' ever'body to get out of de tent. I done ast him, but he say as 'didn't I git ma money's worth?' an' den ebberbody laugh, an' he shove me 'long wid de rest of de folks, an' here I is."

"She's sick, dat's what I says," Mandy declared, excitedly; "an' somebody's got to do somethin'!"

"I done all I knowed," drawled Hasty, fearing that Mandy was regretting her twenty-five-cent investment.

"Go 'long out an' fix up dat ere kitchen fire," was Mandy's impatient reply. "I got to keep dem vittels warm fer Massa John."

She wished to be alone, so that she could think of some way to get hold of Polly. "Dat baby-faced mornin'-glory done got Mandy all wobbly 'bout de heart," she declared to herself, as she crossed to the window for a sight of the pastor.

It was nearly dark when she saw him coming slowly down the path from the hill. She lighted the study-lamp, rearranged the cushions, and tried to make the room look cheery for his entrance. He stopped in the hall and hung up his hat. There was momentary silence. Would he shut himself in his room for the night, or would he come into the study? At last the door opened and Mandy hastened to place a chair for him.

"Ah's 'fraid you'se mighty tired," she said.

"Oh, no," answered Douglas, absently.

"Mebbe you'd like Mandy to be sarvin' your supper in here to-night. It's more cheerfuller."

The side-showman was already beginning his spiel in the lot below. The lemonade venders{sic} and the popcorn sellers were heard crying their wares. Douglas did not answer her. She bustled from the room, declaring "she was jes' goin' ter bring him a morsel."

He crossed to the window and looked out upon the circus lot. The flare of the torches and the red fire came up to meet his pale, tense face. "How like the picture of thirteen months ago," he thought, and old Toby's words came back to him—"The show has got to go on."

Above the church steeple, the moon was battling its way through the clouds. His eyes travelled from heaven to earth. There was a spirit of unreality in it all. Something made him mistrust himself, his very existence. He longed to have done with dreams and speculation, to feel something tangible, warm, and real within his grasp. "I can't go on like this!" he cried. "I can't!" He turned from the window and walked hurriedly up and down the room; indoors or out, he found no rest. He threw himself in the armchair near the table, and sat buried in thought.

Mandy came softly into the room. She was followed by Hasty, who carried a tray, laden with things that ought to have tempted any man. She motioned for Hasty to put the tray on the table, and then began arranging the dishes. Hasty stole to the window, and peeped out at the tempting flare of red fire.

When Douglas discovered the presence of his two "faithfuls" he was touched with momentary contrition. He knew that he often neglected to chat with them now, and he made an effort to say something that might restore the old feeling of comradeship.

"Have you had a hard day with the new gravel walk?" he asked Hasty, remembering that he had been laying a fresh path to the Sunday-school-room.

Hasty glanced uneasily at Mandy, afraid either to lie or tell the truth about the disposition she had made of his afternoon.

"Jes' you come eat yo' supper," Mandy called to Douglas. "Don' yous worry your head 'bout dat lazy husban' ob mine. He ain' goin' ter work 'nuff to hurt hisself." For an instant she had been tempted to let the pastor know how Hasty had gone to the circus and seen nothing of Polly; but her motherly instinct won the day and she urged him to eat before disturbing him with her own anxieties. It was no use. He only toyed with his food; he was clearly ill at ease and eager to be alone. She gave up trying to tempt his appetite, and began to lead up in a roundabout way to the things which she wished to ask.

"Dar's quite some racket out dar in de lot tonight," she said; Douglas did not answer. After a moment, she went on: "Hasty didn't work on no walk to-day." Douglas looked at her quizzically, while Hasty, convinced that for reasons of her own she was going to get him into trouble, was making frantic motions. "He done gone to de circus," she blurted out. Douglas's face became suddenly grave. Mandy saw that she had touched an open wound.

"I jes' couldn't stan' it, Massa John. I HAD to find out 'bout dat angel chile." There was a pause. She felt that he was waiting for her to go on.

"She didn't done ride to-day."

He looked up with the eyes of a dumb, persecuted animal. "And de gemmen in de show didn't tell nobody why—jes' speaked about de udder gal takin' her place."

"Why DIDN'T she ride?" cried Douglas, in an agony of suspense.

"Dat's what I don' know, sah." Mandy began to cry. It was the first time in his experience that Douglas had ever known her to give way to any such weakness. He walked up and down the room, uncertain what to do.

Hasty came down from the window and tried to put one arm about Mandy's shoulders.

"Leab me alone, you nigga!" she exclaimed, trying to cover her tears with a show of anger that she did not feel; then she rushed from the room, followed by Hasty.

The band was playing loudly; the din of the night performance was increasing. Douglas's nerves were strained to a point of breaking. He would not let himself go near the window. He stood by the side of the table, his fists clenched, and tried to beat back the impulse that was pulling him toward the door. Again and again he set his teeth.

It was uncertainty that gnawed at him so. Was she ill? Could she need him? Was she sorry for having left him? Would she be glad if he went for her and brought her back with him? He recalled the hysterical note in her behaviour the day that she went away; how she had pleaded, only a few moments before Jim came, never to be separated from him. Had she really cared for Jim and for the old life? Why had she never written? Was she ashamed? Was she sorry for what she had done? What could it mean? He threw his hands above his head with a gesture of despair. A moment later, he passed out into the night.



Chapter XIII

JIM was slow to-night. The big show was nearly over, yet many of the props used in the early part of the bill were still unloaded.

He was tinkering absent-mindedly with one of the wagons in the back lot, and the men were standing about idly, waiting for orders, when Barker came out of the main tent and called to him sharply:

"Hey, there, Jim! What's your excuse to-night?"

"Excuse for what?" Jim crossed slowly to Barker.

"The cook tent was started half an hour late, and the side show top ain't loaded yet."

"Your wagons is on the bum, that's what! Number thirty-eight carries the cook tent and the blacksmith has been tinkering with it all day. Ask HIM what shape it's in."

"You're always stallin'," was Barker's sullen complaint. "It's the wagons, or the black-smiths, or anything but the truth. I know what's the matter, all right."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Jim, sharply.

"I mean that all your time's took up a-carryin' and a-fetchin' for that girl what calls you 'Muvver Jim.'"

"What have yer got to say about her?" Jim eyed him with a threatening look.

"I got a-plenty," said Barker, as he turned to snap his whip at the small boys who had stolen into the back lot to peek under the rear edge of the "big top." "She's been about as much good as a sick cat since she come back. You saw her act last night."

"Yes," answered Jim, doggedly.

"Wasn't it punk? She didn't show at ALL this afternoon—said she was sick. And me with all them people inside what knowed her, waitin' ter see 'er."

"Give her a little time," Jim pleaded. "She ain't rode for a year."

"Time!" shouted Barker. "How much does she want? She's been back a month and instead o' bracin' up, she's a-gettin' worse. There's only one thing for me to do."

"What's that?" asked Jim, uneasily.

"I'm goin' ter call her, and call her hard."

"Look here, Barker," and Jim squared his shoulders as he looked steadily at the other man; "you're boss here, and I takes orders from you, but if I catches you abusin' Poll, your bein' boss won't make no difference."

"You can't bluff me," shouted Barker.

"I ain't bluffin'; I'm only TELLIN' yer," said Jim, very quietly.

"Well, you TELL her to get onto her job. If she don't she quits, that's all." He hurried into the ring.

Jim took one step to follow him, then stopped and gazed at the ground with thoughtful eyes. He, too, had seen the change in Polly. He had tried to rouse her; it was no use. She had looked at him blankly. "If she would only complain," he said to himself. "If she would only get mad, anything, anything to wake her." But she did not complain. She went through her daily routine very humbly and quietly. She sometimes wondered how Jim could talk so much about her work, but before she could answer the question, her mind drifted back to other days, to a garden and flowers, and Jim stole away unmissed, and left her with folded hands and wide, staring eyes, gazing into the distance.

The memory of these times made Jim helpless to-night. He had gone on hoping from day to day that Barker might not notice the "let-down" in her work, and now the blow had fallen. How could he tell her?

One of the acts came tumbling out of the main tent. There was a moment's confusion, as clowns, acrobats and animals passed each other on their way to and from the ring, then the lot cleared again, and Polly came slowly from the dressing tent. She looked very different from the little girl whom Jim had led away from the parson's garden in a simple, white frock one month before. Her thin, pensive face contrasted oddly with her glittering attire. Her hair was knotted high on her head {a}nd intertwined with flowers and jewels. Her slender neck seemed scarcely able to support its burden. Her short, full skirt and low cut bodice were ablaze with white and coloured stones.

"What's on, Jim?" she asked.

"The 'Leap o' Death.' You got plenty a' time."

Polly's mind went back to the girl who answered that call a year ago. Her spirit seemed very near to-night. The band stopped playing. Barker made his grandiloquent announcement about the wonderful act about to be seen, and her eyes wandered to the distant church steeple. The moonlight seemed to shun it to-night. It looked cold and grim and dark. She wondered whether the solemn bell that once called its flock to worship had become as mute as her own dead heart. She did not hear the whirr of the great machine inside the tent, as it plunged through space with its girl occupant. These things were a part of the daily routine, part of the strange, vague dream through which she must stumble for the rest of her life.

Jim watched her in silence. Her face was turned from him. She had forgotten his presence.

"Star gazin', Poll?" he asked at length, dreading to disturb her revery.

"I guess I was, Jim." She turned to him with a little, forced smile. He longed to save her from Barker's threatened rebuke.

"How yer feelin' to-night?"

"I'm all right," she answered, cheerfully

"Anythin' yer want?"

"Want?" she turned upon him with startled eyes. There was so much that she wanted, that the mere mention of the word had opened a well of pain in her heart.

"I mean, can I do anythin' for you?"

"Oh, of course not." She remembered how little ANY ONE could do.

"What is it, Poll?" he begged; but she only turned away and shook her head with a sigh. He followed her with anxious eyes. "What made yer cut out the show to-day? Was it because you didn't want ter ride afore folks what knowed yer? Ride afore HIM, mebbe?"

"HIM?" Her face was white. Jim feared she might swoon. "You don't mean that he was——"

"Oh, no," he answered, quickly, "of course not. Parsons don't come to places like this one. I was only figurin' that yer didn't want OTHER folks to see yer and to tell him how you was ridin'." She did not answer.

"Was that it, Poll?" he urged.

"I don't know." She stared into space.

"Was it?"

"I guess it was," she said, after a long time.

"I knowed it," he cried. "I was a fool to a-brung you back. Yer don't belong with us no more."

"Oh, don't, Jim! don't! Don't make me feel I'm in the way here, too!"

"Here, too?" He looked at her in astonishment. "Yer wasn't in HIS way, was yer, Poll?"

"Yes, Jim." She saw his look of unbelief and continued hurriedly. "Oh, I tried not to be. I tried so hard. He used to read me verses out of a Bible about my way being his way and my people his people, but it isn't so, Jim. Your way is the way you are born, and your people are the people you are born with, and you can't change it, Jim, no matter how hard you try."

"YOU was changin' it," he answered, savagely. "You was gettin' jes' like them people. It was me what took yer away and spoiled it all. You oughtn't to a come. What made yer, after yer said yer wouldn't?"

She did not answer. Strange things were going through the mind of the slow-witted Jim. He braced himself for a difficult question.

"Will yer answer me somethin' straight?" he asked.

"Why, of course," she said as she met his gaze.

"Do you love the parson, Poll?"

She started.

"Is that it?"

Her lids fluttered and closed, she caught her breath quickly, her lips apart, then looked far into the distance.

"Yes, Jim, I'm afraid—that's it." The little figure drooped, and she stood before him with lowered eyes, unarmed. Jim looked at her helplessly, then shook his big, stupid head.

"Ain't that hell?"

It seemed such a short time to Jim since he had picked her up, a cooing babe, at her dead mother's side. He watched the tender, averted face. Things had turned out so differently from what he had planned.

"And he didn't care about you—like that?" he asked, after a pause.

"No, not in that way." She was anxious to defend the pastor from even the thought of such a thing. "He was good and kind always, but he didn't care THAT WAY. He's not like that."

"I guess I'll have a talk with him," said Jim, and he turned to go.

"Talk!" she cried.

He stopped and looked at her in astonishment. It was the first time that he had ever heard that sharp note in her voice. Her tiny figure was stiffened with decision. Her eyes were blazing.

"If you ever DARE to speak to him—about me, you'll never see me again."

Jim was perplexed.

"I mean it, Jim. I've made my choice, and I've come back to you. If you ever try to fix up things between him and me, I'll run away—really and truly away—and you'll never, never get me back."

He shuffled awkwardly to her side and reached apologetically for the little, clenched fist. He held it in his big, rough hand, toying nervously with the tiny fingers.

"I wouldn't do nothin' that you wasn't a-wantin', Poll. I was just a tryin' to help yer, only I—I never seem to know how."

She turned to him with tear-dimmed eyes, and rested her hands on his great, broad shoulders, and he saw the place where he dwelt in her heart.



Chapter XIV

THE "Leap of Death" implements were being carried from the ring, and Jim turned away to superintend their loading.

Performers again rushed by each other on their way to and from the main tent.

Polly stood in the centre of the lot, frowning and anxious. The mere mention of the pastor's name had made it seem impossible for her to ride to-night. For hours she had been whipping herself up to the point of doing it, and now her courage failed her. She followed Barker as he came from the ring.

"Mr. Barker, please!"

He turned upon her sharply.

"Well, what is it NOW?"

"I want to ask you to let me off again to-night." She spoke in a short, jerky, desperate way.

"What?" he shrieked. "Not go into the ring, with all them people inside what's paid their money a-cause they knowed yer?"

"That's it," she cried. "I can't! I can't!"

"YER gettin' too tony!" Barker sneered. "That's the trouble with you. You ain't been good for nothin' since you was at that parson's house. Yer didn't stay there, and yer no use here. First thing yer know yer'll be out all 'round."

"Out?"

"Sure. Yer don't think I'm goin' ter head my bill with a 'dead one,' do you?"

"I am not a 'dead one,'" she answered, excitedly. "I'm the best rider you've had since mother died. You've said so yourself."

"That was afore yer got in with them church cranks. You talk about yer mother! Why, she'd be ashamed ter own yer."

"She wouldn't," cried Polly. Her eyes were flashing, her face was scarlet. The pride of hundreds of years of ancestry was quivering with indignation. "I can ride as well as I EVER could, and I'll do it, too. I'll do it to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" echoed Barker. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I CAN'T go into that ring TO-NIGHT," she declared, "and I won't."

She was desperate now, and trading upon a strength beyond her own.

He looked at her with momentary indecision. She WAS a good rider—the best since her mother, as he had often told her. He could see this meant an issue. He felt she would be on her mettle to-morrow, as far as her work was concerned, if he left her alone to-night.

"All right," he said, sullenly. "Yer can stay off to-night. I got the crowd in there, anyway, and I got their money. I'll let Eloise do a turn on Barbarian, but TO-MORROW you'd better show me your old act."

"I'll show you!" she cried. "I'll show you!"

"Well, see that you do." He crossed into the ring.

Polly stood where Barker had left her, white and tense. Jim came toward her from the direction of the wagons. He glanced at her uneasily. "What's he been a-sayin' ter you?"

"He says I can't ride any more." Her lips closed tightly. She stared straight ahead of her. "He says I was no good to the people that took me in, and I'm no use here."

"It's not so!" thundered Jim.

"No; it's not!" she cried. "I'll show him, Jim! I'll show him—to-morrow!" She turned toward the dressing tent; Jim caught her firmly by the wrist.

"Wait, Poll! You ain't ever goin' into the ring a-feelin' THAT WAY." Her eyes met his, defiantly.

"What's the difference? What's the difference?" She wrenched her wrist quickly from him, and ran into the dressing tent laughing hysterically.

"And I brung her back to it," mumbled Jim as he turned to give orders to the property men.

Most of the "first-half props" were loaded, and some of the men were asleep under the wagons. The lot was clear. Suddenly he felt some one approaching from the back of the enclosure. He turned and found himself face to face with the stern, solitary figure of the pastor, wrapped in his long, black cloak. The moonlight slipped through a rift in the clouds, and fell in a circle around them.

"What made you come here?" was all Jim said.

"I heard that Miss Polly didn't ride to-day. I was afraid she might be ill."

"What's that to you?"

"She ISN'T ill?" Douglas demanded anxiously, oblivious to the gruffness in the big fellow's voice.

"She's all right," Jim answered shortly as he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and avoided the pastor's burning gaze.

"And she's happy? she's content?"

"Sure."

"I'm glad," said Douglas, dully. He tried to think of some way to prolong their talk. "I've never heard from her, you know."

"Us folks don't get much time to write." Jim turned away and began tinkering with one of the wagons.

Douglas had walked up and down in front of the tents again and again, fighting against a desire to do the very thing that he was doing, but to no purpose, and now that he was here, it seemed impossible that he should go away so unsatisfied. He crossed to Jim and came determinedly to the point.

"Can't I see her, Jim?"

"It's agin the rules." He did not turn.

There was another pause, then Douglas started slowly out of the lot.

"Wait a minute," called Jim, as though the words had been wrung from him. The pastor came back with a question in his eyes.

"I lied to you."

"She's NOT well, then?"

"Oh, yes, she's well enough. It ain't that; it's about her being happy."

"She isn't?" There was a note of unconscious exultation in his voice.

"No. She AIN'T happy here, and she WAS happy WITH YOU."

"Then, why did she leave me?"

"I don't know. She wasn't goin' ter do it at first. Somethin' must a-happened afterwards, somethin' that you an' me didn't know about."

"We WILL know about it, Jim. Where is she?" His quick eye searched the lot. His voice had regained it's old command. He felt that he could conquer worlds.

"You can't do no good that way," answered Jim. "She don't want ter see you again."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, but she told me she'd run away if I ever even talked to you about her."

"You needn't talk, Jim; I'll talk for myself. Where is she?"

"She'll be comin' out soon. You can wait around out here with me. I'll let you know in time." He led the way through a narrow passage between the wagons.

Jim and Douglas had barely left the lot when Deacon Elverson's small, round head slipped cautiously around the corner of the dressing tent. The little deacon glanced exultantly about him. He was monarch of all he surveyed. It was very thrilling to stand here, on this forbidden ground, smelling the saw-dust, gazing at the big red wagons, studying the unprotected circus properties, and listening to the lightening tempo of the band.

"Did you see him?" shouted Strong, who had followed closely upon Elverson's heels.

The little deacon started. Strong was certainly a disturbing factor at times.

"Yes, I—I saw him."

"Well?"

"He—he—didn't see HER."

"What DID he do?" Strong was beside himself with impatience.

"He—he just talked to the big 'un, and went out that way." Elverson nodded toward the wagons.

"I guess he ain't gone far," sneered Strong. "He come over to this lot to see her, and he ain't goin' ter give up till he does it. You wait here; I'll take a look round." He went quickly in the direction of the wagons.

Elverson needed no second invitation to wait. He was congratulating himself upon his good fortune, when he all but collided with a flying apparition, vanishing in the direction of the main tent. Sophisticated eyes would have seen only a rather stout acrobat clad in pink tights; but Elverson was not sophisticated, and he teetered after the flitting angel, even unto the forbidden portals of the "big top."

He was peeping through the curtains which had fallen behind her, and was getting his first glimpse of the great, sawdust world beyond, when one of the clowns dashed from the dressing tent on his way to the ring.

The clown was late. He saw the limp coat tails of the deacon, who was three-quarters in the tent. Here was a chance to make a funny entrance. He grabbed the unsuspecting little man from the rear. The terrified deacon struck out blindly in all directions, his black arms and legs moving like centipede, but the clown held him firmly by the back and thrust him, head foremost, into the tent.

Strong returned almost immediately from his unsuccessful search for the pastor. He looked about the lot for Elverson.

"Hey, there, Elverson!" he called lustily. There was no response.

"Now where's he got to," grumbled Strong. He disappeared quickly around the corner of the dressing tent, resolved to keep a sharp lookout for Douglas.

Elverson was thrust from the tent soon after, spitting sawdust and much discomfited by the laughing performers who followed him. His knees almost gave way beneath him when Barker came out of the ring, snapping his long, black whip.

"Get out of here, you bloke!" roared Barker. And Elverson "got."

No one had remembered to tell the groom that Polly was not to ride to-night. So Bingo was brought out as usual, when their "turn" approached.

"Take him back, Tom," Polly called from the entrance, when she learned that Bingo was waiting, "and bring Barbarian. I'm not going on to-night. Eloise is going to ride in my place."

This was the second time to-day that Bingo had been led away without going into the ring. Something in his big, wondering eyes made Polly follow him and apologise. He was very proud, was Bingo, and very conscientious. He felt uneasy when he saw the other horses going to their work without him.

"Never mind, Bingo," she said, patting his great, arched neck, "we'll show 'em to-morrow." He rubbed his satiny nose against her cheek. "We'll make them SIT UP again. Barker says our act's no good—that I've let down. But it's not YOUR fault, Bingo. I've not been fair to you. I'll give you a chance to-morrow. You wait. He'll never say it again, Bingo! Never again!" She watched him go out of the lot, and laughed a little as he nipped the attendant on the arm. He was still irritated at not going into the ring.

Polly had nothing more to do to-night except to get into her street clothes. The wagons would soon be moving away. For a moment she glanced at the dark church steeple, then she turned to go inside the tent. A deep, familiar voice stopped her.

"Polly!"

She turned quickly. She could not answer. Douglas came toward her. He gazed at her in amazement. She drew her cape about her slightly clad figure. She seemed older to him, more unapproachable with her hair heaped high and sparkling with jewels. Her bodice of satin and lace shimmered through the opening of her cape. The moonlight lent mystery and indecision to her betinselled attire. The band was playing the andante for the balancing act.

She found strength at last to open her lips, but still no sound came from them. She and the pastor looked at each other strangely, like spirits newly met from far-apart worlds. She, too, thought her companion changed. He was older, the circles beneath his eyes were deeper, the look in their depths more grave.

"We were such close neighbours to-day, I—I rather thought you'd call," he stammered. He was uncertain what he was saying—it did not matter—he was there with her.

"When you're in a circus there isn't much time for calling."

"That's why I've come to call on you." They might have been sheppherd and sheppherdess on a May-day wooing, for the halting way in which their words came.

"You're all right?" he went on. "You're happy?"

"Yes, very," she said. Her eyes were downcast.

He did not believe her, the effort in her voice, her drawn, white face belied her words. How COULD he get the truth from her?

"Jim said you might not want to see me."

She started.

"Has Jim been talking to you?"

"Yes, but I didn't let him stop me, for you told me the day you left that you'd never change—toward me. Have you, Poll?" He studied her, anxiously.

"Why, no, of course not," she said, evasively.

"And you'll be quite frank when I ask you something?"

"Yes, of course." She was growing more and more uneasy. She glanced about for a way of escape.

"Why did you leave me as you did?"

"I told you then." She tried to cross toward the dressing tent.

He stepped quickly in front of her.

"You aren't answering FRANKLY, and you aren't happy."

She was growing desperate. She felt she must get away, anywhere, anywhere.

He seized her small wrists and forced her to look at him.

"And I am not happy without YOU, and I never, NEVER can be." The floodgates were open, his eyes were aglow, he bent toward her eagerly.

"Oh, you mustn't," she begged. "You MUSTN'T."

"You've grown so close," he cried. "So close!" She struggled to be free. He did not heed her. "You know—you must know what I mean." He drew her toward him and forced her into his arms. "You're more precious to me than all else on this earth."

For the first time he saw the extreme pallor on her face. He felt her growing limp and lifeless in his arms. A doubt crossed his mind. "If I am wrong in thinking you feel as I do, if you honestly care for all this," he glanced about at the tents, "more than for any life that I can give you, I shan't interfere. You'll be going on your way in an hour. I'll say good-bye and God bless you; but if you do care for me, Polly," he was pleading now, "if you're NOT happy here—won't you come back to me? Won't you, Polly?"

She dared not meet his eyes, nor yet to send him away. She stood irresolute. The voice of Deacon Strong answered for her.

"So! You're HERE, are you?"

"Yes, Deacon Strong, I'm here," answered the pastor, as he turned to meet the accusing eyes of the deacon, who had come quickly from behind the dressing tent.

"As for you, miss," continued Strong, with an insolent nod toward Polly, "I might have known how you'd keep your part of the bargain."

"Bargain?" echoed Douglas. "What bargain?"

"Oh, please, Deacon Strong, please. I didn't mean to see him, I didn't, truly." She hardly knew what she was saying.

"What bargain?" demanded Douglas sternly.

"She told me that you and her wasn't ever goin' ter see each other agin," roared Strong. "If I'd a-knowed she was goin' to keep on with this kind o' thing, you wouldn't er got off so easy."

"So! That's it!" cried Douglas. It was all clear to him now. He recalled everything, her hysterical behaviour, her laughter, her tears. "It was you who drove that child back to this." He glanced at Polly. The narrow shoulders were bent forward. The nervous little fingers were clasping and unclasping each other. Never before had she seemed so small and helpless.

"Oh, please, Mr. John, please! Don't make him any worse!"

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.

"It would have done no good," she sobbed. "Oh, why—why won't you leave me alone?"

"It would have done all the good in the world. What right had he to send you back to this?"

"I had every right," said Strong, stubbornly.

"What?" cried Douglas.

"It was my duty."

"Your duty? Your narrow-minded bigotry!"

"I don't allow no man to talk to me like that, not even my parson."

"I'm NOT your parson any longer," declared Douglas. He faced Strong squarely. He was master of his own affairs at last. Polly clung to him, begging and beseeching.

"Oh, Mr. John! Mr. John!"

"What do you mean by that?" shouted Strong.

"I mean that I stayed with you and your narrow-minded congregation before, because I believed you needed me. But now this girl needs me more. She needs me to protect her from just such injustice as yours."

"You'd better be protectin' YOURSELF. That's my advice to you."

"I can do that WITHOUT your advice."

"Maybe you can find another church with that circus ridin' girl a-hangin' 'round your neck."

"He's right," cried Polly. "You couldn't." She clung to the pastor in terrified entreaty. "You COULDN'T get another church. They'd never, never forgive you. It's no use. You've got to let me go! you've GOT to!"

"Listen, Polly." He drew her toward him. "God is greater than any church or creed. There's work to be done EVERYWHERE—HIS work."

"You'll soon find out about that," thundered Strong.

"So I will," answered Douglas, with his head thrown high. "This child has opened a new world to me; she has shown me a broader, deeper humanity; she and I will find the way together."

"It won't be an easy one, I'll promise you that." Strong turned to go.

"I'm not looking for the easy way!" Douglas called after him, then he turned to draw Polly's arm within his; but Polly had slipped from his side to follow the deacon.

"Oh, please, Deacon Strong, please!" she pleaded. "You won't go away like that. He'll be all right if you'll only wait. I'm NOT coming back. I'm not—honestly. I'm going on with the show, to-night, and I'm going this time FOREVER."

"You are going to stay here with me," cried Douglas.

"No, no, Mr. John. I've made up my mind, and I won't be to blame for your unhappiness." She faced him firmly now. "I don't belong to your world, and I don't want to try any more. I'm what he called me—I'm a circus riding girl. I was born in the circus, and I'll never change. That's my work—riding, and it's yours to preach. You must do your work, and I'LL do MINE."

She started toward the ring. Eloise and Barbarian were already waiting at the entrance.

"Eloise!" She took one step toward her, then stopped at the sound of Barker's voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called. "Although we are obliged to announce that our star rider, Miss Polly, will not appear to-night, we offer you in her place an able substitute, Mademoiselle Eloise, on her black, untamed horse, Barbarian."

Eloise put her hands on the horse's back to mount.

"No! No!" cried Polly.

The other girl turned in astonishment at the agony in her voice.

"Polly!"

"Wait, Eloise! I'M going to ride!"

"You can't, not Barbarian! He don't know your turn."

"So much the better!" She seized the bridle from the frightened girl's hand.

"Polly!" shouted Douglas. He had followed her to the entrance.

"I must! I will!"

She flew into the ring before he could stop her. He took one step to follow her.

"You'd better let her alone and get out o' here," said Strong. His voice was like a firebrand to Douglas. He turned upon him, white with rage.

"You drove her to this." His fists were clenched. He drew back to strike.

Jim came from behind the wagons just in time to catch the uplifted arm.

"Leave HIM to ME, this ain't no parson's job." The pastor lowered his arm, but kept his threatening eyes on the deacon's face.

"Where's Poll?" asked Jim.

"In there! Douglas pointed toward the main tent without turning his head. He was still glaring at the deacon, and breathing hard.

"What?" cried Jim, in alarm. He faced about and saw Eloise. He guessed the truth. A few quick strides brought him to the entrance curtains. He threw them back and looked into the ring.

"My God! Why don't Barker stop her?"

"What is it?" called Douglas. He forgot the deacon in his terror at Jim's behaviour, and Strong was able to slip away, unnoticed.

"She's goin' ter ride! She's goin' ter ride Barbarian!"

Douglas crossed to his side and looked.

Polly was springing onto the back of Barbarian. He was a poorly trained horse, used by the other girl for more showy, but less dangerous feats than Polly's.

"She's goin' through her regular turn with him, she's tryin' ter break her neck," said Jim. "She wants ter do it. It's your fault!" he cried, turning upon Douglas with bloodshot eyes. He was half insane, he cared little whom he wounded.

"Why can't we stop her?" cried Douglas, unable to endure the strain. He took one step inside the entrance.

"No, no; not that!" Jim dragged him back roughly. "If she sees you now, it will be the end." They watched in silence. "She's over the first part," Jim whispered, at last.

Douglas drew back, his muscles tense, as he watched the scene inside the ring. Eloise stood at the pastor's side, horror-stricken at Polly's reckless behaviour. She knew Barbarian. It was easy to guess the end.

"She's comin' to the hoops," Jim whispered, hoarsely.

"Barbarian don't know that part, I never trained him," the other girl said.

Polly made the first leap toward the hoops. The horse was not at fault; it was Polly. She plunged wildly, the audience started. She caught her footing with an effort. One, two, three hoops were passed. She threw herself across the back of the horse and hung, head downward, as he galloped around the ring. The band was playing loudly, the people were cheering. She rose to meet the last two hoops.

"She's swayin'," Jim shrieked in agony. "She's goin' to fall." He covered his face with his hands.

Polly reeled and fell at the horse's side. She mounted and fell again. She rose and staggered in pursuit.

"I can't bear it," groaned Douglas. He rushed into the ring, unconscious of the thousands of eyes bent upon his black, ministerial garb, and caught the slip of a girl in his arms just as she was about to sink fainting beneath the horse's hoofs.

Barker brought the performance to a halt with a crack of his whip. The audience stood on tiptoe. White-faced clowns and gaily attired acrobats crowded around Polly and the pastor.

Douglas did not see them. He had come into his own.

"He's bringin' her out," whispered Eloise, who still watched at the entrance. Jim dared not look up, his head was still in his hands.

"Is it over?" he groaned.

"I don't know. I can't tell yet." She stepped aside as Douglas came out of the tent, followed by a swarm of performers. He knelt on the soft grass and rested Polly's head upon his knee. The others pressed about them. It seemed to Douglas that he waited hours; then her white lids quivered and opened and the colour crept back to her lips.

"It's all right, Jim!" called one of the men from the crowd. "She's only fainted." The big fellow had waited in his tracks for the verdict.

Polly's eyes looked up into those of the parson—a thrill shot through his veins.

"It was no use, was it?" She shook her head with a sad little smile. He knew that she was thinking of her failure to get out of his way.

"That's because I need you so much, Polly, that God won't let you go away from me." He drew her nearer to him, and the warm blood that shot to her cheeks brought back her strength. She rose unsteadily, and looked about her. Jim came toward her, white and trembling.

"All right, Poll?"

"Oh, Muvver Jim!" She threw herself into his arms and clung to him, sobbing weakly.

No one could ever remember just how the audience left the big top that night, and even Barker had no clear idea of how Jim took down the tents, loaded the great wagons, and sent the caravan on its way.

When the last wagon was beginning to climb the long, winding road of the moon-lit hill, Jim turned to Polly, who stood near the side of the deserted ring. His eyes travelled from her to the parson, who waited near her. She was in her street clothes now, the little brown Quakerish dress which she had chosen to wear so much since her return from the parsonage.

"I guess I won't be makin' no mistake this time," he said, and he placed her hand in that of the parson.

"Good-bye, Muvver Jim," faltered Polly.

He stooped and touched her forehead with his lips. A mother's spirit breathed through his kiss.

"I'm glad it's like this," he said, then turned away and followed the long, dotted line of winding lights disappearing slowly over the hill.

Her eyes travelled after him.

Douglas touched the cold, little hand at her side.

"I belong with them," she said, still gazing after Jim and the wagons.

"You belong with me," he answered in a firm, grave voice, and something in the deep, sure tones told her that he was speaking the truth. She lifted one trembling hand to his shoulder, and looked up into his face.

"Whither thou goest, will I go, where thou diest, will I die."

He drew her into his arms.

"The Lord do so to me and more also, if aught but death part thee and me."

THE END