long, while Ben marched
before in solemn silence, which soon became both impressive and
oppressive because so unusual, and such a proof of his deep
displeasure. Penitent Bab longed for just one word, one sign of
relenting; and when none came, she began to wonder how she could
possibly bear it if he kept his dreadful threat and did not speak to
her for a whole year.

But presently her own discomfort absorbed her, for her feet were
wet and cold as well as very tired; pop-corn and peanuts were not
particularly nourishing food, and hunger made her feel faint;
excitement was a new thing, and now that it was over she longed to
lie down and go to sleep; then the long walk with a circus at the
end seemed a very different affair from the homeward trip with a
distracted mother awaiting her. The shower had subsided into a dreary
drizzle, a chilly east wind blew up, the hilly road seemed to lengthen
before the weary feet, and the mute, blue flannel figure going on
so fast with never a look or sound, added the last touch to Bab's
remorseful anguish.

Wagons passed, but all were full, and no one offered a ride. Men and
boys went by with rough jokes on the forlorn pair, for rain soon made
them look like young tramps. But there was no brave Sancho to resent
the impertinence, and this fact was sadly brought to both their minds
by the appearance of a great Newfoundland dog who came trotting after
a carriage. The good creature stopped to say a friendly word in his
dumb fashion, looking up at Bab with benevolent eyes, and poking his
nose into Ben's hand before he bounded away with his plumy tail curled
over his back.

Ben started as the cold nose touched his fingers, gave the soft head a
lingering pat, and watched the dog out of sight through a thicker mist
than any the rain made. But Bab broke down; for the wistful look
of the creature's eyes reminded her of lost Sancho, and she sobbed
quietly as she glanced back longing to see the dear old fellow jogging
along in the rear.

Ben heard the piteous sound and took a sly peep over his shoulder,
seeing such a mournful spectacle that he felt appeased, saying to
himself as if to excuse his late sternness:

"She _is_ a naughty girl, but I guess she is about sorry enough now.
When we get to that sign-post I'll speak to her, only I wont forgive
her till Sanch comes back."

But he was better than his word; for, just before the post was
reached, Bab, blinded by tears, tripped over the root o