“I can't bear it,” groaned Douglas. He rushed into the ring, unconscious of the thousands of eyes bent upon his black, ministerial garb, and caught the slip of a girl in his arms just as she was about to sink fainting beneath the horse's hoofs. Barker brought the performance to a halt with a crack of his whip. The audience stood on tiptoe. White-faced clowns and gaily attired acrobats crowded around Polly and the pastor. Douglas did not see them. He had come into his own. “He's bringin' her out,” whispered Eloise, who still watched at the entrance. Jim dared not look up, his head was still in his hands. “Is it over?” he groaned. “I don't know. I can't tell yet.” She stepped aside as Douglas came out of the tent, followed by a swarm of performers. He knelt on the soft grass and rested Polly's head upon his knee. The others pressed about them. It seemed to Douglas that he waited hours; then her white lids quivered and opened and the colour crept back to her lips. “It's all right, Jim!” called one of the men from the crowd. “She's only fainted.” The big fellow had waited in his tracks for the verdict. Polly's eyes looked up into those of the parson--a thrill shot through his veins. “It was no use, was it?” She shook her head with a sad little smile. He knew that she was thinking of her failure to get out of his way. “That's because I need you so much, Polly, that God won't let you go away from me.” He drew her nearer to him, and the warm blood that shot to her cheeks brought back her strength. She rose unsteadily, and looked about her. Jim came toward her, white and trembling. “All right, Poll?” “Oh, Muvver Jim!” She threw herself into his arms and clung to him, sobbing weakly. No one could ever remember just how the audience left the big top that night, and even Barker had no clear idea of how Jim took down the tents, loaded the great wagons, and sent the caravan on its way. When the last wagon was beginning to climb the long, winding road of the moon-lit hill, Jim turned to Polly, who stood near the side of the deserted ring. His eyes travelled from her to the parson, who waited near her. She was in her street clothes now, the little brown Quakerish dress which she had chosen to wear so much since her return from the parsonage. “I guess I won't be makin' no mistake this time,” he said, and he placed her hand in that of the parson. “Good-bye, Muvver Jim,” faltered Polly. He stooped and touched her forehead with his lips. A mother's spirit breathed through his kiss. “I'm glad it's like this,” he said, then turned away and followed the long, dotted line of winding lights disappearing slowly over the hill. Her eyes travelled after him. Douglas touched the cold, little hand at her side. “I belong with them,” she said, still gazing after Jim and the wagons.