Circus and menagerie, swing-boats, roundabouts, shooting-galleries--all were gone. The whole area lay trampled and bare, with puddles where the steam-engines had stood, and in the puddles bedabbled relics of paper brushes, confetti bags, scraps torn from feminine flounces, twisted leaden tubes of "ladies' tormentors" cast away and half-trodden into the mire; the whole an unscavenged desolation. Her folk--the show-folk--had deserted her and vanished, and she had not a penny in her pocket. It cost Tilda all her pluck to keep what she called a tight upper lip. She uttered no cry, but seated herself on the nearest doorstep-- apparently with deliberation, actually not heeding, still less caring, to whom the doorstep belonged. "Oh, 'Dolph!" she murmured. To her credit, in the act of appealing to him, she understood the dog's heroism, and again stretched forth her arms. He had been waiting for this--sprang at her, and again was caught and hugged. Again the two forlorn ones rocked in an embrace. Brief ecstasy! The door behind them was constructed in two portions, of which the upper stood wide, the lower deceptively on the latch. Against this, as she struggled with Godolphus's ardour, Tilda gave a backward lurch. It yielded, flew open, and child and dog together rolled in across the threshold, while a shop-bell jangled madly above them. "Get out of this--you and your nasty cur!" Tilda picked up herself and her crutch, and stood eyeing the shopwoman, who, summoned by the bell, had come rushing from an inner room, and in no sweet temper. From the woman she glanced around the shop-- a dairy-shop with a marble-topped counter, and upon the counter a pair of scales and a large yellow block of margarine. "It was a naccident," said Tilda firmly and with composure. "And my dog isn' a nasty cur; it only shows your ignorance. Be quiet, 'Dolph!" She had to turn and shake her crutch at Godolphus, who, perceiving his mistress's line of action, at once, in his impulsive Irish way, barked defiance at the shopwoman. But the shopwoman's eyes rested on the crutch, and the sight of it appeared to mollify her. "My gracious! I do believe you 're the child was hurt at Maggs's Circus and taken to hospital." Tilda nodded. "Did you see me?" "Carried by on a stretcher--and your face the colour of _that_." The woman pointed to the marble counter-top. "I was a serious case," said Tilda impressively. "The people at the Good Samaritan couldn' remember admittin' the likes of it. There were complications." "You don't say!" "But what's become of Maggs's?"