“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.