Down the majestic line of the elephants, towering in the apotheosis of mere bulk to preach ineffectually that spirit is apocryphal and mass alone is potent; past the panthers that sniffed as if they guessed the nearness of the grazing herd in the next pasture; past the cage in which the lioness lay snarling and baring her teeth above her cubs, so pathetically akin to the meadow in her motherhood; past unknown creatures with surprising horns and shaggy necks and lolling tongues--it was a wonderful progress. But it was as if Liva had found something more wonderful than these when, before the tigers' cage, she stepped forward, stooped a little beneath the rope, and stood erect with shining eyes. "Look!" she said. "Look, Timmie." She was holding a blue violet. "In front of the tigers; it was _growing_!" "Why don't you give it to me?" was Timothy's only answer. She laid it in his hand, laughing a little at her daring. "It won't ever be the same," she said. "Tigers have walked over it. My, ain't everything in the pasture differ'nt?" "Just as differ'nt as differ'nt can be," Timothy admitted. "Here we are back to the birds again," Liva said, sighing. Timothy had put the violet in his coat pocket and he stood staring at the orange and flame in the cage: Her phototype and a violet--her phototype and a violet. But all he said, not daring to look at her at all, was:-- "I can't make it seem like the Pump pasture to save me." There is something, as they have said of a bugle, "winged and warlike" about a circus--the confusions, the tramplings, the shapes, the keen flavour of the Impending, and above all the sense of the Untoward, which is eternal and which survives glamour as his grave survives a man. Liva and Timothy sat on the top row of seats and felt it all, and believed it to be merely honest mirth. Occasionally Liva turned and peered out through the crack in the canvas where the side met the roof, for the pure joy of feeling herself alien to the long green fields with their grazing herds and their orioles, and at one with the colour and music and life within. And she was glad of it all, glad to be there with Timothy. But all she said was:-- "Oh, Timmie, I hope it ain't half over yet. Do you s'pose it is? When I look outside it makes me feel as if it was over." And Timothy, his heart beating, a great hope living in his breast, answered only:-- "No, I guess it'll be quite some time yet. It's a nice show. Nice performance for the money, right through. Ain't it?"