Mrs.Peckover, whose self-possession seemed in imminent danger of being overthrown by little Mary's mute demonstrations of affection, listened anxiously to every word the Doctor uttered; and, as soon as he had done, said that she must go back to the circus directly, and tell her husband the truth about all that had occurred, as a necessary set-off against the slanders that were sure to be spoken against her by Mr.Jubber.
"Oh, never mind me, ma'am!" she said, in answer to the apprehensions expressed by Mrs.Joyce about her reception when she got to the circus.
"The dear child's safe; and that's all I care about.

I'm big enough and strong enough to take my own part; and Jemmy, he's always by to help me when I can't.

May I come back, if you please, sir, this evening; and say--and say?
--" She would have added, "and say good-bye;" but the thoughts which now gathered round that one word, made it too hard to utter.

She silently curtseyed her thanks for the warm invitation that was given to her to return; stooped down to the child; and, kissing her, wrote on the slate, "I shall be back, dear, in the evening, at seven o'clock"-- then disengaged the little hands that still held fast by her gown, and hurried from the garden, without once venturing to look behind her as she crossed the sunny lawn.
Mrs.Joyce, and the young ladies, and the rector, all tried their best to console little Mary; and all failed.

She resolutely, though very gently, resisted them; walking away into corners by herself, and looking constantly at her slate, as if she could only find comfort in reading the few words which Mrs.Peckover had written on it.