“No—not when _I_ tell you, child; but when your own heart tells you. I wouldn’t have you think me ungrateful, for the world; I wouldn’t have you think that I undervalue, in any way, your sacrifice for me, or your valuable help in my time of greatest need; I shall remember it all, while God gives me memory to remember anything. But I should be a brute and a coward, if I took advantage of it—or of you. You are very young, and have, I trust, a long and happy life before you; my life seems to be going down in shadows. More than all else, I want you to think that the Dandy Chater who lingered with you in the woods, and whispered foolish things to you, is not the Dandy Chater who holds your hands now, and speaks to you out of a full and grateful heart. Perhaps—who can tell, child?—perhaps trouble and suffering have altered him—have made him see many things in a better light; perhaps he’s a different man altogether.” She was weeping quietly, with her head bowed down on the hands he held; but she did not interrupt him. “There’s an old mother at home, waiting to welcome back the pretty child she brought into the world, and has held so often in her arms; there’s a grey-headed father, who loves you; and there’s some one else—a good-hearted lad, with never a stain upon him—who loves you, too, as you deserve to be loved. Now—when does your heart tell you you must go back to them?” “I—I understand,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I’ve had time to think, during these few days—and this wild and foolish heart of mine seems to beat for them—for him—more than it ever did before. I should like to go back to them at once—to-morrow—now that I know you are safe. But will they understand?” “Your mother will understand everything,” said Philip, with a smile. For three days, Philip Chater remained with the circus—keeping hidden during the day, and only venturing out at night. During that time, he had some narrow escapes from re-capture; once, he lay under a tarpaulin which had been flung hurriedly over him, and heard a constable making minute enquiries concerning the missing Dandy Chater, while Captain Peter Quist gave as minute replies. Realising, however, that he could not remain hidden much longer, and being fully aware of the risk which was run so cheerfully by the Captain, and those associated with him, he determined to get away, and to let what risk and danger there was be upon his own shoulders. He knew well, however, that the Captain would never consent to his departure; and would be mortally offended at the mere suggestion of such a thing. Therefore, he determined to steal away, without giving any warning of his intention. Clara Siggs, under a safe escort, had gone back to Bamberton; and the circus was already making arrangements to move on further afield.