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.
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