THE blare of the circus band had been a sore temptation to Mandy Jones all afternoon and evening. Again and again it had dragged her from her work to the study window, from which she could see the wonders so tantalisingly near. Mandy was housekeeper for the Rev. John Douglas, but the unwashed supper dishes did not trouble her, as she watched the lumbering elephants, the restless lions, the long-necked giraffes and the striped zebras, that came and went in the nearby circus lot. And yet, in spite of her own curiosity, she could not forgive her vagrant “worse half,” Hasty, who had been lured from duty early in the day. She had once dubbed him Hasty, in a spirit of derision, and the name had clung to him. The sarcasm seemed doubly appropriate to-night, for he had been away since ten that morning, and it was now past nine.

The young pastor for a time had enjoyed Mandy's tirades against her husband, but when she began calling shrilly out of the window to chance acquaintances for news of him, he slipped quietly into the next room to finish to-morrow's sermon. Mandy renewed her operations at the window with increased vigour when the pastor had gone. She was barely saved from pitching head foremost into the lot, by the timely arrival of Deacon Strong's daughter, who managed, with difficulty, to connect the excited woman's feet with the floor.

“Foh de Lor' sake!” Mandy gasped, as she stood panting for breath and blinking at the pretty, young, apple-faced Julia; “I was suah most gone dat time.” Then followed another outburst against the delinquent Hasty.

But the deacon's daughter did not hear; her eyes were already wandering anxiously to the lights and the tinsel of the little world beyond the window.

This was not the first time to-day that Mandy had found herself talking to space. There had been a steady stream of callers at the parsonage since eleven that morning, but she had long ago confided to the pastor that she suspected their reasons.

“Dey comes in here a-trackin' up my floors,” she said, “and a-askin' why you don' stop de circus from a-showin' nex' to de church and den a-cranin' afar necks out de winder, till I can't get no housework done.”

“That's only human nature,” Douglas had answered with a laugh; but Mandy had declared that she knew another name for it, and had mumbled something about “hypocritters,” as she seized her broom and began to sweep imaginary tracks from in front of the door.

Many times she had made up her mind to let the next caller know just what she thought of “hypocritters,” but her determination was usually weakened by her still greater desire to excite increased wonder in the faces of her visitors.

Divided between these two inclinations, she gazed at Julia now; the shining eyes of the deacon's daughter conquered, and she launched forth into an eager description of how she had just seen a “wondeful striped anamule” with a “pow'ful long neck walk right out of the tent,” and how he had “come apart afore her very eyes,” and two men had slipped “right out a' his insides.” Mandy was so carried away by her own eloquence and so busy showing Julia the sights beyond the window, that she did not hear Miss Perkins, the thin-lipped spinster, who entered, followed by the Widow Willoughby dragging her seven-year-old son Willie by the hand.

The women were protesting because their choir practice of “What Shall the Harvest Be?” had been interrupted by the unrequested acompaniment{sic} of the “hoochie coochie” from the nearby circus band.

“It's scandalous!” Miss Perkins snapped. “Scandalous! And SOMEBODY ought to stop it.” She glanced about with an unmistakable air of grievance at the closed doors, feeling that the pastor was undoubtedly behind one of them, when he ought to be out taking action against the things that her soul abominated.

“Well, I'm sure I'VE done all that I could,” piped the widow, with a meek, martyred air. She was always martyred. She considered it an appropriate attitude for a widow. “He can't blame ME if the choir is out of key to-morrow.” “Mercy me!” interrupted the spinster, “if there isn't Julia Strong a-leaning right out of that window a-looking at the circus, and her pa a deacon of the church, and this the house of the pastor. It's shocking! I must go to her.”

“Ma, let me see, too,” begged Willie, as he tugged at his mother's skirts.

Mrs. Willoughby hesitated. Miss Perkins was certainly taking a long while for her argument with Julia. The glow from the red powder outside the window was positively alarming.

“Dear me!” she said, “I wonder if there can be a fire.” And with this pretext for investigation, she, too, joined the little group at the window.

A few moments later when Douglas entered for a fresh supply of paper, the backs of the company were toward him. He crossed to the study table without disturbing his visitors, and smiled to himself at the eager way in which they were hanging out of the window.

Douglas was a sturdy young man of eight and twenty, frank and boyish in manner, confident and light-hearted in spirit. He had seemed too young to the deacons when he was appointed to their church, and his keen enjoyment of outdoor games and other healthful sports robbed him of a certain dignity in their eyes. Some of the women of the congregation had been inclined to side with the deacons, for it hurt their vanity that the pastor found so many other interests when he might have been sitting in dark, stuffy rooms discussing theology with them; but Douglas had been either unconscious of or indifferent to their resentment, and had gone on his way with a cheery nod and an unconquerable conviction of right, that had only left them floundering. He intended to quit the room now unnoticed, but was unfortunate enough to upset a chair as he turned from the table. This brought a chorus of exclamations from the women, who chattering rushed quickly toward him.

“What do you think of my naughty boy, Willie?” simpered the widow. “He dragged me quite to the window.”

Douglas glanced amusedly first at the five-foot-six widow and then at the helpless, red-haired urchin by her side, but he made no comment beyond offering a chair to each of the women.

“Our choir practice had to be entirely discontinued,” declared Miss Perkins sourly, as she accepted the proffered chair, adjusted her skirts for a stay, and glanced defiantly at the parson, who had dutifully seated himself near the table.

“I am sure I have as true an ear as anybody,” whimpered the widow, with an injured air; “but I defy ANY ONE to lead 'What Shall the Harvest Be?' to an accompaniment like THAT.” She jerked her hand in the direction of the window. The band was again playing the “hoochie coochie.”

“Never mind about the choir practice,” said Douglas, with a smile. “It is SOUL not SKILL that our congregation needs in its music. As for that music out there, it is NOT without its compensations. Why, the small boys would rather hear that band than the finest church organ in the world.”

“And the SMALL BOYS would rather see the circus than to hear you preach, most likely,” snapped Miss Perkins. It was adding insult to injury for him to try to CONSOLE her.

“Of course they would; and so would some of the grown-ups if they'd only tell the truth about it,” said Douglas, laughing.

“What!” exclaimed Miss Perkins.

“Why not?” asked Douglas. “I am sure I don't know what they do inside the tents, but the parade looked very promising.”

“The PARADE!” the two women echoed in one breath. “Did YOU see the parade?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Douglas, enthusiastically. “But it didn't compare with the one I saw at the age of eight.” He turned his head to one side and looked into space with a reminiscent smile. The widow's red-haired boy crept close to him.

“The Shetland ponies seemed as small as mice,” he continued, dreamily, “the elephants huge as mountains, the great calliope wafted my soul to the very skies, and I followed that parade right into the circus lot.”

“Did you seed inside de tent?” Willie asked, eagerly.

“I didn't have enough money for that,” Douglas answered, frankly. He turned to the small boy and pinched his ear. There was sad disappointment in the youngster's face, but he brightened again, when the parson confessed that he “peeped.”

“A parson peeping!” cried the thin-lipped Miss Perkins.

“I was not a parson then,” corrected Douglas, good-naturedly.

“You were GOING to be,” persisted the spinster.

“I had to be a boy first, in spite of that fact.”

The sudden appearance of Hasty proved a diversion. He was looking very sheepish.

“Hyar he is, Mars John; look at him!” said Mandy.

“Hasty, where have you been all day?” demanded Douglas, severely.

Hasty fumbled with his hat and sparred for time. “Did yo' say whar's I been, sah?”

“Dat's what he done ast yo',” Mandy prompted, threateningly.

“I bin 'ceived, Mars John,” declared Hasty, solemnly. Mandy snorted incredulously. Douglas waited.

“A gemmen in de circus done tole me dis mawnin' dat ef I carry water fo' de el'phants, he'll let me in de circus fo' nuffin', an' I make a 'greement wid him. Mars John, did yo' ebber seed an' el'phant drink?” he asked, rolling his eyes. John shook his head.

“Well, sah, he jes' put dat trunk a'his'n into de pail, jes' once an—swish—water gone.”

Douglas laughed; and Mandy muttered, sullenly.

“Well, sah,” continued Hasty, “I tote water fo' dem el'phants all day long, an' when I cum roun' to see de circus, de gemmen won't let me in. An' when I try to crawl under de tent, dey pulls me out by de laigs an' beats me.” He looked from one to the other expecting sympathy.

“Serves you right,” was Mandy's unfeeling reply. “If yo's so anxious to be a-totin' water, jes' yo' come along outside and tote some fo' Mandy.”

“I can't do no mo' carryin', Mandy,” protested Hasty. “I'se hurted in mah arm.”

“What hurt yo'?”

“Tiger.”

“A tiger?” exclaimed the women in unison.

“Done chawed it mos' off,” he declared, solemnly. “Deacon Elverson, he seed it, an' he says I's hurt bad.”

“Deacon Elverson?” cried the spinster. “Was Deacon Elverson at the circus?”

“He was in de lot, a-tryin' to look in, same as me,” Hasty answered, innocently.

“You'd better take Hasty into the kitchen,” said Douglas to Mandy, with a dry smile; “he's talking too much for a wounded man.”

Mandy disappeared with the disgraced Hasty, advising him with fine scorn “to get de tiger to chew off his laigs, so's he wouldn't have to walk no mo'.”

The women gazed at each other with lips closed tightly. Elverson's behaviour was beyond their power of expression. Miss Perkins turned to the pastor, as though he were somehow to blame for the deacon's backsliding, but before she could find words to argue the point, the timid little deacon appeared in the doorway, utterly unconscious of the hostile reception that Hasty had prepared for him. He glanced nervously from one set face to the other, then coughed behind his hat.

“We're all very much interested in the circus,” said Douglas. “Can't you tell us about it?”

“I just went into the lot to look for my son,” stammered the deacon. “I feared Peter had strayed.”

“Why, deacon,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “I just stopped by your house and saw Mrs. Elverson putting Peter to bed.”

The deacon was saved from further embarrassment by an exclamation from Julia, who had stayed at the window. “Oh, look; something has happened!” she cried. “There's a crowd. They are coming this way.”

Douglas crossed quickly to Julia's side, and saw an excited mob collecting before the entrance to the main tent. He had time to discover no more before Mandy burst in at the door, panting with excitement and rolling her large, white-rimmed eyeballs.

“Mars John, a little circus girl done fall off her hoss!” she cried. “Dr. Hartley say can dey bring her in heah?”

“Of course,” said Douglas, hurrying outside.

There were horrified exclamations from the women, who were aghast at the idea of a circus rider in the parsonage. In their helpless indignation, they turned upon the little deacon, feeling intuitively that he was enjoying the drama. Elverson was retreating toward the door when he was suddenly thrust aside by Douglas.

In the young pastor's arms was a white, spangled burden of humanity, her slender arm hung lifeless over his shoulder. The silk stocking was torn from one bruised ankle; her hair fell across her face, veiling it from the unfriendly glances of the women. Douglas passed out of sight up the stairway without looking to the right or left, followed by the doctor.

Mandy reached the front door in time to push back a crowd of intruders. She had barely closed the door when it was thrust open by Jim.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Go 'way f'um here!” cried Mandy, as her eyes unconsciously sought the stairs.

Jim followed the direction of her glance, and cleared the steps at a bound. Mandy pursued him, muttering angrily. Deacon Elverson, too, was about to follow, when a grim reminder from Miss Perkins brought him around and he made for the door instead. He started back on opening it, for standing on the threshold was a clown in his grotesque “make-up”; his white clothes were partially concealed by a large, travelling ulster, held together by one button. In one hand he carried a small leather satchel; in the other a girl's sailor hat; a little tan coat was thrown across his arm. The giggles of the boy hiding behind his mother's skirt were the only greetings received by the trembling old man in the doorway.

He glanced uncertainly from one unfriendly face to the other, waiting for a word of invitation to enter; but none came.

“Excuse me,” he said; “I just brought some of her little things. She'd better put on her coat when she goes out. It's gettin' kinder chilly.”

He looked again into the blank faces; still no one spoke. He stepped forward, trembling with anxiety. A sudden fear clutched at his heart, the muscles of his face worked pitifully, the red painted lips began to quiver.

“It ain't—It ain't that, is it?” he faltered, unable to utter the word that filled him with horror.

Even Miss Perkins was momentarily touched by the anguish in the old man's voice. “I guess you will find the person you are looking for upstairs,” she answered tartly; and flounced out of the house, calling to Julia and the others to follow her, and declaring that she would soon let folks know how the parson had brought a “circus ridin' girl” into the parsonage.

The painted clown stood alone, looking from one wall to the other, then he crossed the room and placed the alligator satchel and the little coat and hat on the study table. He was careful not to wrinkle the coat, for this was Polly's birthday gift. Jim and he had planned to have sandwiches and soda pop on the top of the big wagon when they offered their treasures tonight; but now the wagons would soon be leaving—and where was Polly? He turned to ask this question as Mandy came down the stairs.

“Well, if dar ain't anudder one,” she cried.

“Never mind, Mandy,” said Douglas, who was just behind her, carrying a small water pitcher, and searching for a bottle of brandy which had been placed in the medicine chest for emergencies.

“You can take these upstairs,” he told her, when he had filled the pitcher with water and found the liquor. Mandy looked threateningly at Toby, then reluctantly went on her way.

Douglas turned to the old man pleasantly. His was the first greeting that Toby had received, and he at last found voice to ask whether Polly was badly hurt.

“The doctor hasn't told us yet,” said Douglas, kindly.

“I'm her Uncle Toby—not her REAL uncle,” the old man explained, “but that's what she calls me. I couldn't come out right away, because I'm on in the concert. Could I see her now, please?”

“Here's the doctor,” said Douglas, as Hartley came down the stairs, followed by Jim. “Well, doctor, not bad, I hope?”

“Yes, rather bad,” said the doctor, adding quickly, as he saw the suffering in Toby's face, “but don't be alarmed. She's going to get well.”

“How long will it be before we can have her back—before she can ride again?” asked Jim gruffly, as he stood apart, twisting his brown, worn hat in his hands.

“Probably several months,” said the doctor. “No bones are broken, but the ligaments of one ankle are torn, and she received a bad blow on the head. It will be some time before she recovers consciousness.” “What are we goin' to do, Jim?” asked Toby, helplessly.

“You needn't worry, we'll take good care of her here,” said Douglas, seeing desperation written on their faces.

“Here?” They looked at him incredulously.—And this was a parson!

“Where are her parents?” the doctor asked, looking at Jim and Toby.

“She ain't got no parents 'cept Toby an' me,” replied Jim. “We've took care of her ever since she was a baby.”

“Oh, I see,” said the doctor. “Well, one of you'd better stay here until she can be moved.”

“That's the trouble; we can't,” said Toby, hanging his head. “You see, sir, circus folks is like soldiers. No matter what happens, the show has to go on, and we got to be in our places.”

“Well, well, she'll be safe enough, here,” said the doctor. “It is a fortunate thing that Mr. Douglas can manage this. Our town hospital burned down a few months ago, and we've been rather puzzled as to what to do with such cases.” He took his leave with a cheery “Good night,” and a promise to look in upon the little patient later. Jim shuffled awkwardly toward the pastor.

“It's mighty good of you to do this,” he mumbled, “but she ain't goin' to be no charity patient. Me and Toby is goin' to look after her keep.”

“Her wants will be very few,” Douglas answered, kindly. “You needn't trouble much about that.”

“I mean it,” said Jim, savagely. He met Douglas's glance of surprise with a determined look, for he feared that his chance of being useful to Polly might be slipping out of his life.

“You mustn't mind Jim,” the clown pleaded at the pastor's elbow. “You see pain gets some folks different from others; and it always kinder makes him savage.”

“Oh, that's all right,” Douglas answered, quickly. His own life had been so lonely, that he could understand the selfish yearning in the big man's heart. “You must do what you think best about these things; Mandy and I will look after the rest.”

Jim hung his head, feeling somehow that the pastor had seen straight into his heart and discovered his petty weakness. He was about to turn toward the door when it was thrown open by Barker.

“Where is she?” shouted the manager, looking from one to the other.

“She can't come,” said Jim in a low, steady voice, for he knew the storm of opposition with which Barker would meet the announcement.

“Can't come?” shrieked Barker. “Of course she'll come. I can't get along without her. She's GOT to come.” He looked at Jim, who remained silent and firm. “WHY ain't she comin'?” he asked, feeling himself already defeated.

“She's hurt bad,” was Jim's laconic reply.

“The devil she is!” said Barker, looking at Douglas for confirmation. “Is that right?”

“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-knob 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 gratitude. 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 passed 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 assured 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 nobody 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 assured 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.”