" 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.
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