A new purpose had come into his life, the realisation of a new necessity, and he knew that the fight which he must henceforth make for this child was the same that he must make for himself. Chapter XI “I'se goin' into de Sunday-school-room to take off dat ere widow's finishin' touches,” said Mandy, as she came down the steps. “All right!” called Douglas. “Take these with you, perhaps they may help.” He gathered up the garlands which Polly had left on the ground. His eyes were shining, he looked younger than Mandy had ever seen him. Polly had turned her back at the sound of Mandy's voice and crossed to the elm tree, drying her tears of happiness and trying to control her newly awakened emotions. Douglas felt intuitively that she needed this moment for recovery, so he piled the leaves and garlands high in Mandy's arms, then ran into the house with the light step of a boy. “I got the set-sit-settin' room all tidied up,” said Mandy as she shot a sly glance at Polly. “That's good,” Polly answered, facing Mandy at last and dimpling and blushing guiltily. “Mos' de sociable folks will mos' likely be hangin' roun' de parsonage to-night, 'stead ob stayin' in de Sunday-school-room, whar dey belongs. Las' time dat ere Widow Willoughby done set aroun' all ebenin' a-tellin' de parson as how folks could jes' eat off'n her kitchen floor, an' I ups an' tells her as how folks could pick up a good, squar' meal off'n MANDY'S floor, too. Guess she'll be mighty careful what she says afore Mandy to-night.” She chuckled as she disappeared down the walk to the Sunday-school-room. Polly stood motionless where Mandy had left her. She hardly knew which way to turn. She was happy, yet afraid. She felt like sinking upon her knees and begging God to be good to her, to help her. She who had once been so independent, so self-reliant, now felt the need of direction from above. She was no longer master of her own soul, something had gone from her, something that would never, never come again. While she hesitated, Hasty came through the gate looking anxiously over his shoulder. “Well, Hasty?” she said, for it was apparent that Hasty had something important on his mind. “It's de big one from de circus,” he whispered, excitedly. “The big one?” “You know--De one what brung you.” “You don't mean--?” Polly's question was answered by Jim himself who had followed Hasty quickly through the gate. Their arms were instantly about each other. Jim forgot Hasty and every one in the world except Polly, and neither of them noticed the horrified Miss Perkins and the Widow Willoughby, who had been crossing the yard on their way from the Sunday-school-room with Julia. “You're just as big as ever,” said Polly, when she could let go of Jim long enough to look at him. “You haven't changed a bit.” “You've changed enough for both of us.” He looked at the unfamiliar long skirts and the new way of doing her hair. “You're bigger, Poll; more grown up like.”