ll their plans carefully.

So now they sit in this beam of light, talking to each other, instead
of practicing and attempting new feats. The horse stands in the ring
and feels lonely. Jenny leans on Orso's arm, thoughtfully
contemplating and looking with wistful, wondering eyes into the dim
space, swinging her feet like a child and musing--how it will be on
the plains, and asking questions from Orso.

"How do they live there?" says she, raising her eyes to the face of
her friend.

"There is plenty of oaks. They take an ax and build a house."

"Well," says Jenny, "but until the house is built?"

"It is always warm there. The 'Grizzly Killer' says it is very warm."

Jenny begins to swing her feet more lively, as if the warmth there has
settled the question in her mind; but shortly she remembers that she
has in the circus a dog and a cat, and that she would like to take
them with her. She calls her dog Mister Dog and her cat Mister Cat.

"And will Mr. Dog and Mr. Cat go with us?"

"They will," answers Orso, looking pleased.

"Will we take with us the 'good book'?"

"We will," says Orso, still more pleased.

"Well," says the girl in her innocence, "Mr. Cat will catch birds for
us; Mr. Dog will drive away bad people with his bark; you will be my
husband and I will be your wife, and they will be our children."

Orso feels so happy that he cannot speak, and Jenny continues:

"There, there will be no Mr. Hirsch, no circus, we will not work, and
basta! But no!" she adds a moment later, "the 'good book' says that we
should work, and I sometimes will jump through one--through the two
hoops, the three, the four hoops."

Jenny evidently does not imagine work under any other form than
jumping through hoops.

Shortly she says again:

"Orso, will I indeed be always with you?"

"Yes, Jen, for I love you very much."

His face brightens as he says so, and becomes almost beautiful.

And yet he does not know himself how dear to him has become this small
bright head.

He has nothing else in this world but her, and he watches her as the
faithful dog guards his mistress. By her fragile side he looks like
Hercules, but he is unconscious of this.

"Jen," says he after a moment, "listen to what I tell you."

Jenny, who shortly before had got up to look at the horse, now turns
and, kneeling down before Orso, puts her two elbows on his knees,
crosses her arms and, resting her chin on her wrists, uplifts her face
and is a