“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. Chapter XIII