"She won't be able to travel for some time," said Douglas.

"Mr. Barker is our manager," Toby explained, as he edged his way to the pastor's side.

"Some time!" Barker looked at Douglas as though he were to blame for their misfortune. "Well, you just bet she will," he declared menacingly.

"See here, Barker, don't you talk to him like that," said Jim, facing the manager. "He's darned square even if he is a parson." Barker turned away. He was not a bad-hearted man, but he was irritated and upset at losing the star feature of his bill.

"Ain't this my dod-gasted luck?" he muttered to himself, as his eye again travelled to the boss canvas-man. "You get out a' here, Jim," he shouted, "an' start them wagons. The show's got to go on, Poll or no Poll."

He turned with his hand on the door-k.n.o.b and jerked out a grudging thanks to the pastor. "It's all fired good of you to take her in," he said, "but it's tough to lose her. Good night!" He banged the door and clattered down the steps.

Jim waited. He was trying to find words in which to tell his grat.i.tude.

None came; and he turned to go with a short "good-bye!"

"Good night, Jim," said the pastor. He crossed the room and took the big fellow's hand.

"Much obliged," Jim answered gruffly. It was his only polite phrase, and he had taught Polly to say it. Douglas waited until Jim had pa.s.sed down the steps, then turned to Toby, who still lingered near the table.

"You'll tell her how it was, me and Jim had to leave her without sayin'

'good-bye,' won't you, sir?" Toby pleaded.

"Yes, indeed," Douglas promised.

"I'll jes' put this little bit o' money into her satchel." He picked up the little brown bag that was to have been Polly's birthday gift. "Me an' Jim will be sendin' her more soon."

"You're going to miss her, I'm afraid," Douglas said, feeling an irresistible desire to gain the old man's confidence.

"Lord bless you, yes, sir," Toby answered, turning upon him eagerly.

"Me an' Jim has been father an' mother and jes' about everythin' to that little one. She wan't much bigger'n a handful of peanuts when we begun a-worryin' about her."

"Well, Mandy will do the worrying now," Douglas laughed. "She's been dying for a chance to mother somebody all along. Why, she even tried it on me."

"I noticed as how some of those church people seemed to look kinder queer at me," said Toby, "and I been a-wonderin' if mebbe they might feel the same about her."

"Oh, they're all right," Douglas a.s.sured him; "they'll be her friends in no time."

"She's fit for 'em, sir," Toby pleaded. "She's good, clean into the middle of her heart."

"I'm sure of it," Douglas answered.

"I've heard how some church folks feels towards us circus people, sir, and I jes' wanted ye to know that there ain't finer families, or better mothers or fathers or grandfathers or grandmothers anywhere than we got among us. Why, that girl's mother rode the horses afore her, and her mother afore that, and her grandmother and grandfather afore that, an' there ain't n.o.body what's cared more for their good name and their children's good name an' her people has. You see, sir, circus folks is all like that; they's jes' like one big family; they tends to their business and takes good care o' theirselves--they has to--or they couldn't do their work. It's 'cause I'm leavin' her with you that I'm sayin' all this," the old man apologised.

"I'm glad you told me, Toby," Douglas answered, kindly. "I've never known much about circus folks."

"I guess I'd better be goin'," Toby faltered, as his eyes roved hungrily toward the stairway.

"I'll send you our route, and mebbe you'll be lettin' us know how she is."

"Indeed I will," Douglas a.s.sured him, heartily.

"You might tell her we'll write ever' day or so," he added.

"I'll tell her," Douglas promised earnestly.

"Good night!" The old man hesitated, unwilling to go, but unable to find further pretext for staying.

"Good night, Toby." Douglas extended his hand toward the bent figure that was about to shuffle past him. The withered hand of the white-faced clown rested in the strong grasp of the pastor, and his pale, little eyes sought the face of the stalwart man before him; a numb desolation was growing in his heart; the object for which he had gone on day by day was being left behind and he must stumble forth into the night alone.

"It's hard to leave her," he mumbled; "but the show has got to go on."

The door shut out the bent, old figure. Douglas stood for some time where Toby had left him, still thinking of his prophetic words. His revery was broken by the sounds of the departing wagons, the low muttered curses of the drivers, the shrieking and roaring of the animals, as the circus train moved up the distant hill. "The show has got to go on," he repeated as he crossed to his study table and seated himself for work in the dim light of the old-fashioned lamp. He put out one hand to draw the sheets of his interrupted sermon toward him, but instead it fell upon a small sailor hat. He twisted the hat absently in his fingers, not yet realising the new order of things that was coming into his life. Mandy tiptoed softly down the stairs. She placed one pudgy forefinger on her lips, and rolled her large eyes skyward. "Dat sure am an angel chile straight from Hebben," she whispered. "She done got a face jes' like a little flower."

"Straight from heaven," Douglas repeated, as she crossed softly to the table and picked up the satchel and coat.

"You can leave the lamp, Mandy--I must finish to-morrow's sermon."

She turned at the threshold and shook her head rather sadly as she saw the imprint of the day's cares on the young pastor's face.

"Yo' mus' be pow'ful tired," she said.

"No, no; not at all. Good night, Mandy!"

She closed the door behind her, and Douglas was alone. He gazed absently at the pages of his unfinished sermon as he tapped his idle pen on the desk. "The show has got to go on," he repeated, and far up the hillside with the slow-moving wagons, Jim and Toby looked with unseeing eyes into the dim, star-lit distance, and echoed the thought: "The show has got to go on."

Chapter V

THE church bells were ringing their first warning for the morning service when Mandy peeped into the spare bedroom for the second time, and glanced cautiously at the wisp of hair that bespoke a feminine head somewhere between the covers and the little white pillow on the four-poster bed. There was no sound from the sleeper, so Mandy ventured across the room on tiptoe and raised the shades. The drooping boughs of Autumn foliage lay shimmering against the window panes, and through them might be seen the grey outline of the church. Mandy glanced again toward the bed to make sure that the burst of sunlight had not wakened the invalid, then crossed to a small, rickety chair, laden with the discarded finery of the little circus rider.

"Lawdy sakes!" she cried, holding up a spangled dress, admiringly.

"Ain't dat beautiful!" She drew near the mirror, attempting to see the reflection of the tinsel and chiffon against her very ample background of gingham and avoirdupois. "You'd sure be a swell n.i.g.g.e.r wid dat on, Honey," she chuckled to herself. "Wouldn't dem deacons holler if dey done see dat?"

The picture of the deacons' astonishment at such a spectacle so grew upon Mandy, that she was obliged to cover her generous mouth to shut in her convulsive laughter, lest it awaken the little girl in the bed.

She crossed to the old-fashioned bureau which for many months had stood unused against the wall. The drawer creaked as she opened it to lay away the gay, spangled gown.

"It'll be a mighty long time afore she puts on dem tings agin," she said, with a doubtful shake of her large, round head.

Then she went back to the chair and picked up Polly's sandals, and examined the bead-work with a great deal of interest. "Lawdy, lawdy!"

she cried, as she compared the size of the sandals to that of her own rough, worn shoes. She was again upon the point of exploding with laughter, as the church bell added a few, final and more emphatic clangs to its warning.

She turned with a start, motioning a vain warning out of the window for the bell to be silent, but the little sleeper was already stirring uneasily on her pillow. One soft arm was thrown languidly over her head.

The large, blue eyes opened and closed dreamily as she murmured the words of the clown song that Jim and Toby had taught her years ago:

"Ting ling, That's what the bells sing----"

Mandy reached the side of the bed as the girl's eyes opened a second time and met hers with a blank stare of astonishment. A tiny frown came into the small, white forehead.