For once the pastor was powerless in the presence of grief. Both he and Mandy left the room quietly, feeling that Polly wished to be spared the outburst of tears that a sympathetic word might bring upon her. They allowed her to remain alone for a time, then Mandy entered softly with a tender good night and Douglas followed her cheerily as though nothing at all had happened.

It was many weeks before Polly again became a companion to Douglas and Mandy, but they did not intrude upon her grief. They waited patiently for the time when youth should again a.s.sert itself, and bring back their laughing mate to them.

Chapter VIII

When Polly understood that Toby was ACTUALLY GONE, it seemed to her that she could never laugh again. She had been too young to realise the inevitableness of death when it came to her mother, and now she could scarcely believe that Toby would never, never come back to her. She felt that she must be able to DRAG him back, that she could not go on without him. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was for all his care of her. She thought of the thousand little things that she might have done for him. She longed to recall every impatient word to him. His gentle reproachful eyes were always haunting her. "You must come back, Toby!"

she cried. "You must!"

It was only when body and mind had worn themselves out with yearning, that a numbness at last crept over her, and out of this grew a gradual consciousness of things about her and a returning sense of her obligation to others. She tried to answer in her old, smiling way and to keep her mind upon what they were saying, instead of letting it wander away to the past.

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 pa.s.sing 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.

"Ma.s.se 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 n.i.g.g.e.r 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, n.i.g.g.e.r!" 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 n.i.g.g.e.r, 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 pa.s.sed 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.