LONELY days followed Polly's desertion of the parsonage. Mandy went about her duties very quietly, feeling that the little comments which once amused the pastor had now become an interruption to thoughts in which she had no part. He would sit for hours with his head in his hands, taking no notice of what passed before him. She tried to think of new dishes to tempt his appetite, and shook her head sadly as she bore the untasted food back to the kitchen.

She sometimes found a portfolio of drawings lying open upon his study table. She remembered the zeal with which he had planned to remodel the church and parsonage, when he first came to them; how his enthusiasm had gradually died for lack of encouragement; and how he had at last put his books in a cupboard, where they grew dusty from long neglect. She marvelled at their reappearance now, but something in his set, far-away look made her afraid to inquire. Thus she went on from day to day, growing more impatient with Hasty and more silent with the pastor.

Mandy needed humor and companionship to oil the wheels of her humdrum life; there was no more laughter in the house, and she began to droop.

Polly had been away from the parsonage a month, when the complacency of the village was again upset by the arrival of the “Great American Circus.”

There were many callers at the parsonage that day, for speculation was now at fever heat about the pastor. “Would he try to see her? had he forgotten her? and what had he ever found in her?” were a few of the many questions that the women were asking each other. Now, that the cause of their envy was removed, they would gladly have reinstated the pastor as their idol; for, like all truly feminine souls, they could not bear to see a man unhappy without wishing to comfort him, nor happy unless they were the direct cause of his state. “How dare any man be happy without me?” has been the cry of each woman since Eve was created to mate with Adam.

Douglas had held himself more and more aloof from the day of Polly's disappearance. He expressed no opinion about the deacons or their recent disapproval of him. He avoided meeting them oftener than duty required; and Strong felt so uncomfortable and tongue-tied in his presence that he, too, was glad to make their talks as few as possible.

Nothing was said about the pastor's plans for the future, or about his continued connection with the church, and the inquisitive sisterhood was on the point of exploding from an over-accumulation of unanswered questions.

He delivered his sermons conscientiously, called upon his poor, listened to the sorrows, real and fancied, of his parishioners, and shut himself up with his books or walked alone on the hill behind the church.

He had been absent all day, when Mandy looked out on the circus lot for the dozenth time, and saw that the afternoon performance was closing. It had driven her to desperation to learn that Miss Polly was not in the parade that morning, and to know that the pastor had made no effort to find out about her. For weeks both she and Hasty had hoped that the return of the circus might bring Polly back to them; but now it was nearly night and there had been no word from her. Why didn't she come running in to see them, as Mandy had felt so sure she would? Why had the pastor stayed away on the hills all day?

Unanswered questions were always an abomination to Mandy, so finally she drew a quarter from the knotted gingham rag that held her small wad of savings, and told Hasty “to go long to de show and find out 'bout Miss Polly.”

She was anxiously waiting for him, when Deacon Strong knocked at the door for the second time that afternoon.

“Is Mr. Douglas back yet?' he asked.

“No, sah, he ain't,” said Mandy, very shortly. She felt that Strong and Elverson had been “a-tryin' to spy on de parson all day,” and she resented their visits more than she usually did.

“What time are you expectin' him?”

“I don't nebber spec' Massa Douglas till I sees him.”

Strong grunted uncivilly, and went down the steps. She saw from the window that he met Elverson in front of the church.

“Dey sure am a-meanin' trouble,” she mumbled.

The band had stopped playing; the last of the audience had straggled down the street. She opened the door and stood on the porch; the house seemed to suffocate her. What was keeping Hasty?

He came at last, but Mandy could tell from his gait that he brought unwelcome news.

“Ain't she dar?”

“She's wid 'em, all right,” said Hasty.

“Yuh seed her?”

“Naw, I didn't done SEED her.”

“What?”

“She want in de show.”

“What you jes' tell me?”

“She's a-trabbelin' wid 'em, Mandy, but she didn't done ride.”

“See heah, Hasty Jones, is dat ere chile sick?”

“I don' rightly know,” said Hasty. “A great big man, what wored clothes like a gemmen, comed out wid a whip in his hand and says as how he's 'bliged to 'nounce anudder gal in Miss Polly's place. An' den he says as how de udder gal was jes' as good, an' den everybody look disappinted like, an' den out comes de udder gal on a hoss an' do tricks, an' I ain't heard no more 'bout Miss Polly.”

“Why didn't you done ask somebody?”

“Warn't nobody ter ask but de man what wuz hurryin' ever'body to get out of de tent. I done ast him, but he say as 'didn't I git ma money's worth?' an' den ebberbody laugh, an' he shove me 'long wid de rest of de folks, an' here I is.”

“She's sick, dat's what I says,” Mandy declared, excitedly; “an' somebody's got to do somethin'!”

“I done all I knowed,” drawled Hasty, fearing that Mandy was regretting her twenty-five-cent investment.

“Go 'long out an' fix up dat ere kitchen fire,” was Mandy's impatient reply. “I got to keep dem vittels warm fer Massa John.”

She wished to be alone, so that she could think of some way to get hold of Polly. “Dat baby-faced mornin'-glory done got Mandy all wobbly 'bout de heart,” she declared to herself, as she crossed to the window for a sight of the pastor.

It was nearly dark when she saw him coming slowly down the path from the hill. She lighted the study-lamp, rearranged the cushions, and tried to make the room look cheery for his entrance. He stopped in the hall and hung up his hat. There was momentary silence. Would he shut himself in his room for the night, or would he come into the study? At last the door opened and Mandy hastened to place a chair for him.

“Ah's 'fraid you'se mighty tired,” she said.

“Oh, no,” answered Douglas, absently.

“Mebbe you'd like Mandy to be sarvin' your supper in here to-night. It's more cheerfuller.”

The side-showman was already beginning his spiel in the lot below. The lemonade venders{sic} and the popcorn sellers were heard crying their wares. Douglas did not answer her. She bustled from the room, declaring “she was jes' goin' ter bring him a morsel.”

He crossed to the window and looked out upon the circus lot. The flare of the torches and the red fire came up to meet his pale, tense face. “How like the picture of thirteen months ago,” he thought, and old Toby's words came back to him—“The show has got to go on.”

Above the church steeple, the moon was battling its way through the clouds. His eyes travelled from heaven to earth. There was a spirit of unreality in it all. Something made him mistrust himself, his very existence. He longed to have done with dreams and speculation, to feel something tangible, warm, and real within his grasp. “I can't go on like this!” he cried. “I can't!” He turned from the window and walked hurriedly up and down the room; indoors or out, he found no rest. He threw himself in the armchair near the table, and sat buried in thought.

Mandy came softly into the room. She was followed by Hasty, who carried a tray, laden with things that ought to have tempted any man. She motioned for Hasty to put the tray on the table, and then began arranging the dishes. Hasty stole to the window, and peeped out at the tempting flare of red fire.

When Douglas discovered the presence of his two “faithfuls” he was touched with momentary contrition. He knew that he often neglected to chat with them now, and he made an effort to say something that might restore the old feeling of comradeship.

“Have you had a hard day with the new gravel walk?” he asked Hasty, remembering that he had been laying a fresh path to the Sunday-school-room.

Hasty glanced uneasily at Mandy, afraid either to lie or tell the truth about the disposition she had made of his afternoon.

“Jes' you come eat yo' supper,” Mandy called to Douglas. “Don' yous worry your head 'bout dat lazy husban' ob mine. He ain' goin' ter work 'nuff to hurt hisself.” For an instant she had been tempted to let the pastor know how Hasty had gone to the circus and seen nothing of Polly; but her motherly instinct won the day and she urged him to eat before disturbing him with her own anxieties. It was no use. He only toyed with his food; he was clearly ill at ease and eager to be alone. She gave up trying to tempt his appetite, and began to lead up in a roundabout way to the things which she wished to ask.

“Dar's quite some racket out dar in de lot tonight,” she said; Douglas did not answer. After a moment, she went on: “Hasty didn't work on no walk to-day.” Douglas looked at her quizzically, while Hasty, convinced that for reasons of her own she was going to get him into trouble, was making frantic motions. “He done gone to de circus,” she blurted out. Douglas's face became suddenly grave. Mandy saw that she had touched an open wound.

“I jes' couldn't stan' it, Massa John. I HAD to find out 'bout dat angel chile.” There was a pause. She felt that he was waiting for her to go on.

“She didn't done ride to-day.”

He looked up with the eyes of a dumb, persecuted animal. “And de gemmen in de show didn't tell nobody why—jes' speaked about de udder gal takin' her place.”

“Why DIDN'T she ride?” cried Douglas, in an agony of suspense.

“Dat's what I don' know, sah.” Mandy began to cry. It was the first time in his experience that Douglas had ever known her to give way to any such weakness. He walked up and down the room, uncertain what to do.

Hasty came down from the window and tried to put one arm about Mandy's shoulders.

“Leab me alone, you nigga!” she exclaimed, trying to cover her tears with a show of anger that she did not feel; then she rushed from the room, followed by Hasty.

The band was playing loudly; the din of the night performance was increasing. Douglas's nerves were strained to a point of breaking. He would not let himself go near the window. He stood by the side of the table, his fists clenched, and tried to beat back the impulse that was pulling him toward the door. Again and again he set his teeth.

It was uncertainty that gnawed at him so. Was she ill? Could she need him? Was she sorry for having left him? Would she be glad if he went for her and brought her back with him? He recalled the hysterical note in her behaviour the day that she went away; how she had pleaded, only a few moments before Jim came, never to be separated from him. Had she really cared for Jim and for the old life? Why had she never written? Was she ashamed? Was she sorry for what she had done? What could it mean? He threw his hands above his head with a gesture of despair. A moment later, he passed out into the night.