“Take him back, Tom,” Polly called from the entrance, when she learned that Bingo was waiting, “and bring Barbarian. I'm not going on to-night. Eloise is going to ride in my place.” This was the second time to-day that Bingo had been led away without going into the ring. Something in his big, wondering eyes made Polly follow him and apologise. He was very proud, was Bingo, and very conscientious. He felt uneasy when he saw the other horses going to their work without him. “Never mind, Bingo,” she said, patting his great, arched neck, “we'll show 'em to-morrow.” He rubbed his satiny nose against her cheek. “We'll make them SIT UP again. Barker says our act's no good--that I've let down. But it's not YOUR fault, Bingo. I've not been fair to you. I'll give you a chance to-morrow. You wait. He'll never say it again, Bingo! Never again!” She watched him go out of the lot, and laughed a little as he nipped the attendant on the arm. He was still irritated at not going into the ring. Polly had nothing more to do to-night except to get into her street clothes. The wagons would soon be moving away. For a moment she glanced at the dark church steeple, then she turned to go inside the tent. A deep, familiar voice stopped her. “Polly!” She turned quickly. She could not answer. Douglas came toward her. He gazed at her in amazement. She drew her cape about her slightly clad figure. She seemed older to him, more unapproachable with her hair heaped high and sparkling with jewels. Her bodice of satin and lace shimmered through the opening of her cape. The moonlight lent mystery and indecision to her betinselled attire. The band was playing the andante for the balancing act. She found strength at last to open her lips, but still no sound came from them. She and the pastor looked at each other strangely, like spirits newly met from far-apart worlds. She, too, thought her companion changed. He was older, the circles beneath his eyes were deeper, the look in their depths more grave. “We were such close neighbours to-day, I--I rather thought you'd call,” he stammered. He was uncertain what he was saying--it did not matter--he was there with her. “When you're in a circus there isn't much time for calling.” “That's why I've come to call on you.” They might have been sheppherd and sheppherdess on a May-day wooing, for the halting way in which their words came. “You're all right?” he went on. “You're happy?” “Yes, very,” she said. Her eyes were downcast. He did not believe her, the effort in her voice, her drawn, white face belied her words. How COULD he get the truth from her? “Jim said you might not want to see me.” She started. “Has Jim been talking to you?” “Yes, but I didn't let him stop me, for you told me the day you left that you'd never change--toward me. Have you, Poll?” He studied her, anxiously. “Why, no, of course not,” she said, evasively. “And you'll be quite frank when I ask you something?”