The Gentleman from Indiana

"But I'm going to be a good one," she answered, gaily, "and if I'm good

enough, when I grow up maybe I'll be a great one."

The buckboard had been brought around, and the four young people climbed

in, Harkless driving. Before they started, the judge, standing on the

horse-block in front of the gate, leaned over and patted Miss Sherwood's

hand again. Harkless gathered up the reins.

"You'll make a great Hoosier, all right," said the old man, beaming upon

the girl. "You needn't worry about that, I guess, my dear."

When he said "my dear," Harkless spoke to the horses.

"Wait," said the judge, still holding the girl's hand. "You'll make a

great Hoosier, some day; don't fret. You're already a very beautiful one."

Then he bent his white head and kissed her, gallantly. John said: "Good

afternoon, judge"; the whip cracked like a pistol-shot, and the buckboard

dashed off in a cloud of dust.

"Every once in a while, Harkless," the old fellow called after them, "you

must remember to look at the team."

The enormous white tent was filled with a hazy yellow light, the warm,

dusty, mellow light that thrills the rejoicing heart because it is found

nowhere in the world except in the tents of a circus--the canvas-filtered

sunshine and sawdust atmosphere of show day. Through the entrance the

crowd poured steadily, coming from the absorptions of the wild-animal tent

to feast upon greater wonders; passing around the sawdust ellipse that

contained two soul-cloying rings, to find seats whence they might behold

the splendors so soon to be unfolded. Every one who was not buying the

eternal lemonade was eating something; and the faces of children shone

with gourmand rapture; indeed, very often the eyes of them were all you

saw, half-closed in palate-gloating over a huge apple, or a bulky oblong

of popcorn, partly unwrapped from its blue tissue-paper cover; or else it

might be a luscious pink crescent of watermelon, that left its ravisher

stained and dripping to the brow.

Here, as in the morning, the hawkers raised their cries in unintermittent

shrillness, offering to the musically inclined the Happy Evenings Song-

book, alleged to contain those treasures, all the latest songs of the day,

or presented for the consideration of the humorous the Lawrence Lapearl

Joke-book, setting forth in full the art of comical entertainment and

repartee. (Schofields' Henry bought two of these--no doubt on the

principle that two were twice as instructive as one--intending to bury

himself in study and do battle with Tom Martin on his own ground.)