“You're going to miss her, I'm afraid,” Douglas said, feeling an irresistible desire to gain the old man's confidence.
“Lord bless you, yes, sir,” Toby answered, turning upon him eagerly. “Me an' Jim has been father an' mother and jes' about everythin' to that little one. She wan't much bigger'n a handful of peanuts when we begun a-worryin' about her.”
“Well, Mandy will do the worrying now,” Douglas laughed. “She's been dying for a chance to mother somebody all along. Why, she even tried it on me.”
“I noticed as how some of those church people seemed to look kinder queer at me,” said Toby, “and I been a-wonderin' if mebbe they might feel the same about her.”
“Oh, they're all right,” Douglas assured him; “they'll be her friends in no time.”
“She's fit for 'em, sir,” Toby pleaded. “She's good, clean into the middle of her heart.”
“I'm sure of it,” Douglas answered.
“I've heard how some church folks feels towards us circus people, sir, and I jes' wanted ye to know that there ain't finer families, or better mothers or fathers or grandfathers or grandmothers anywhere than we got among us. Why, that girl's mother rode the horses afore her, and her mother afore that, and her grandmother and grandfather afore that, an' there ain't nobody what's cared more for their good name and their children's good name an' her people has. You see, sir, circus folks is all like that; they's jes' like one big family; they tends to their business and takes good care o' theirselves—they has to—or they couldn't do their work. It's 'cause I'm leavin' her with you that I'm sayin' all this,” the old man apologised.
“I'm glad you told me, Toby,” Douglas answered, kindly. “I've never known much about circus folks.”
“I guess I'd better be goin',” Toby faltered, as his eyes roved hungrily toward the stairway.