One of the acts came tumbling out of the main tent. There was a moment's confusion, as clowns, acrobats and animals passed each other on their way to and from the ring, then the lot cleared again, and Polly came slowly from the dressing tent. She looked very different from the little girl whom Jim had led away from the parson's garden in a simple, white frock one month before. Her thin, pensive face contrasted oddly with her glittering attire. Her hair was knotted high on her head {a}nd intertwined with flowers and jewels. Her slender neck seemed scarcely able to support its burden. Her short, full skirt and low cut bodice were ablaze with white and coloured stones.
“What's on, Jim?” she asked.
“The 'Leap o' Death.' You got plenty a' time.”
Polly's mind went back to the girl who answered that call a year ago. Her spirit seemed very near to-night. The band stopped playing. Barker made his grandiloquent announcement about the wonderful act about to be seen, and her eyes wandered to the distant church steeple. The moonlight seemed to shun it to-night. It looked cold and grim and dark. She wondered whether the solemn bell that once called its flock to worship had become as mute as her own dead heart. She did not hear the whirr of the great machine inside the tent, as it plunged through space with its girl occupant. These things were a part of the daily routine, part of the strange, vague dream through which she must stumble for the rest of her life.
Jim watched her in silence. Her face was turned from him. She had forgotten his presence.
“Star gazin', Poll?” he asked at length, dreading to disturb her revery.
“I guess I was, Jim.” She turned to him with a little, forced smile. He longed to save her from Barker's threatened rebuke.
“How yer feelin' to-night?”
“I'm all right,” she answered, cheerfully
“Anythin' yer want?”