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Show determined to run around to the back of the tent, for there all seemed quiet Unnoticed and alone he crouched In the grass until, gaining courage with the passing moments, te crept nearer the tent- Looking timorously around, he cautiously raised a corner and proceeded pro-ceeded to crawl under the canvas. Succeeding Suc-ceeding at last in getting through, he scrambled to his feet and hastily looked about him. The tent was filled with shabbily dressed women and rough-looking men, one of whom grabbed him as, surprised and frightened, . he started to crawl back under the canvas. "Well, I'll be gol-durned," the man harsh voices floated out en the quiet oTening air. The boy heard footsteps foming down the path from the house ard a timid, childish voice called, "Joe!" The boy, sitting in the shadow of th oak trees, started. "I been a-lookin' fur youns every-whar!" every-whar!" the child sobbed. "Whar is youns, Joe?" The boy rose slowly, his mouth set, his eyes filled with a look of determination. determin-ation. Hitching his suspenders over his shoulders and pulling hishat farther far-ther over his face, he turned slowly toward the rocky path. "All right, Tildy," he called cheerfully, cheer-fully, "don't cry; I'm a-comin'!" H3 Who Listened. BY MARY KIXG.; EMORY. (Copyright, 1D01, by Dally Story Pub. Co. He sat by the roadside, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, gazing at the sunlit hills .before him. The afternoon was hot, and., he was tired and hungry. He had walked many miles since morning, and the dirty face beneath the tarn hat-brim was streaked and smeared with perspiration. perspi-ration. It was a careworn, hopeless face; a face upon which want and privation pri-vation had left their marks, a face which childish pleasures had hurried by; but in the eyes ti.ere was an expression ex-pression of defiance, mingled with uncertainty. un-certainty. Before him the sandy road stretched southward; behind him rose the rugged rug-ged hills, with their scanty covering of stunted oak and pine trees and a meagre sprinkling of scattered houses. Moving uneasily, he glanced anxiously anx-iously over his shoulder, at the clay-daubed clay-daubed house in the ; clearing, halfway half-way up the hill behind him; then his eyes wandered back to the hills again. "I dunno what ter do," he muttered, at last "It were bad afore Mammy -went away, but et's worse since 'Liza Snow an' th' new ba'y come. Yesti-day Yesti-day her knocked me over, an' th' day ,afore Dad beat me, ah' now I got th' 'chance I'm a-goin'." ' Hie hand clinched and the shrill, childish voice had a defiant ring. The sun was sinking in the west, flooding the hills with gold, while from some- "I been a-lookin' fur youns." said good-naturedly, "whar'd yer come from? Look er here, pals," he shouted, shout-ed, "here's a brat what's dared ter inter in-ter th' private apartments o' th' actors ac-tors o' 'Th' Greatest Show on Earth.'" Lifting the boy to his shoulder, he carried car-ried him to the center of the tent where the other occupants quickly gathered about them. Somehow the tired, unchildish face seemed to aroust. the sympathy of the rough-looking men, for they showed him the animals and gave him food, until, happy and contented, he forgot his timidity and unhesitatingly answered ' their questions. ques-tions. "So yer dont like Mis' Snow an' th baby, an' yer dad beats yer?" the big man said, handing the boy another hunk of bread and meat. "Wall, how'd yer like ter come wld us?" The t boy looked at him in amazement. amaze-ment. "I 'lows I'd like ter," he said at last. "Wal, yer can ef yer wants ter. Yer looks honest, an' we needs a boy ter rub down th' 'orses an' things. Yer'll get enough ter eat an' nobody won't beat yer. An' maybe," persuasively, "yer can ride a 'orse an' wear fine clothes, like these gentl'men some day," waving his hand toward his where out of the pines came the tinkle of a cow bell. The boy nhuddered. "I dnn th' best I knowed fur youns, iMammy," he whispered; "but fur little lit-tle Tildy. Ann " His voice ended in a sob, and tears trickled unheeded down the dirty little lit-tle face. The hills, the houses and the trees faded away. He saw again the room in the house on the hill behind be-hind him, with its few battered cooking cook-ing utensils, its splint-bottomed phairs and worn deal table. Lying on a bed in the corner was a woman, her eyes bright with a feverish light, her wasted face turned toward the window, through which she watched the setting sun. ' "Joe," she said at last, wearily turning her head. "I'm a-goin' Home ternight, an' I wants yer co promise f.fon I go thet yer'll take care o' little lit-tle Tildy Ann. I dun the best I could fur ye," she continued, brokenly; "though, Gord knows, 'twan't much. Yer dad won't care when I'm gone, and more'n like he'll take ter beatin' ye, when he ain't got me." She looked yearningly at the child beside her. "So I wants yer ter promise thet yer'll alius al-ius stan' at ween him an' Tildy; then I ken rest easy." And, kneeling there in the gathering darkness, he gave his promise to the dying woman. That night aU was dver, and The" tray-daubed house perched on the rocky hillside was piled with the , silence which comes pnly when life has flown. Early the next day he had helped his father and tome of the neighbors bury her, in ti grove beneath the hill, where the pines chanted a requiem and the withered with-ered oak leaves moaned through the long winter nights. For two years he had been faithful to his trust; for two years, and now "I dunno what ter do," he sobbed; "I dunno what ter do!" He had lost sight of the ugly clay-daubed house and the familiar hills that morning for the first time in his life. Long before sunrise he had crept from the house and followed the road as it wound around the hills like some great snake In the purple morning light toward the distant town. He walked until the rugged mountains rising above his home grew hazy and !ndistinct; until companions. The boy's eyes sparkled and the unchildish un-childish face flushed with excitement Enough to eat, and no beatings! He caught his breath. "I 'lows I'd like to go fust rate," he said, "ef ef I Ken take Tildy." The man looked at him in surprise. "Who's she?" he asked, good-naturedly; "your dawg?" The boy hung his head, abashed. ' "No," he said at' last, with dignity; "her ain't no dawg. Her's my sister." The men looked at one another in silence, then at the child. The big man whistled softly. "We can't take no gals," he said, kindly. "But ef yer goes wid us maybe may-be yer'll come back some day wid heaps o' money, an' then yer can take her away. Come on, boys," he shouted; shout-ed; "et's time fur th' show ter begin. Good-by, sonny," he said, turning to the boy; "an", recollec', ef yer goes wid us yer'll have ter be on han' by 'leven ternight, fur then we moves." The boy looked at him searchingly for a moment, then nodded his head. "I'll be back afore 'leven," he said gravely. " Crawling under the canvas again, he ran across the fields to the road beyond, be-yond, where he commenced the walk back over the mountains to tell Tildy good-by. ' At first the weary miles seemed short to the boy, whose mind was filled with happy visions of the future. But now, as he sat by the roadside below his home, in the fast-gathering dark-t dark-t ness, he felt miserable and uncertain as to what to do. He had just come from the grave beneath the hill, after covering it with vines and wayside flowers; but somehow the red clay mound seemed to reproach him for faltering in his trust. When' he started start-ed up the path to the road again he had determined to go away without seeing Tildy. Yet he still waited, though the shadows were lengthening and the katydids were beginning to call. Thoughts of the child that he had "taken care of" for two years haunted him, while the remembrance of his promise kept ringing ia his ears. "I dunno what ter do!" he moaned, covering his face with his hands; "I dunno what ter do!" The dark chieftain night crept up the hills, while vanquished day, followed fol-lowed by his banners of crimson and gold, slowly disappeared. A light shone from the cabin on the hill and "Well, I'll be gol-durned. strange scenes a d new faces met him at every turn. mce or twice he had been given a "i t" by some friendly mountaineer, to, whom he boldly " 'lowed he were a-goin' ter th' circus." cir-cus." But when he reached the town, with its unaccustomed sights and sounds, he felt alarmed and uncertain as to what to do. Hesitatingly he followed fol-lowed the hurrying crowd toward the circus tent; but as he neared it the strangeness of the scene, the music and the noise frightened him. Pushing Push-ing his way through the crowd he looked anxiously about for some means of escape, when suddenly he V |