He threw back a mop of thick black hair, rolled his eyes ceilingward, and let his sweet, clear voice have full sway.
"Oh, Bud, you darling! Why didn't you tell me he could sing like that,Amarilly?" cried Colette at the close of the song.
"We must have him in St. Mark's choir," declared Mr. Meredith. "You may bring him to the rectory to-morrow, Amarilly, and I will have the choirmaster try his voice. Besides receiving instruction and practice every week, he will be paid for his singing."
Money for Bud's voice! So much prosperity was scarcely believable.
"Fust the Guild school, Miss King's washing, the surpluses, and now Bud!" thought Amarilly exuberantly. "Next thing I know, I'll be on the stage."
"I must go," said Colette presently. "My car is just around the corner on the next street. John, will you ride uptown with me?"
He accepted the invitation with alacrity. Colette's sidelong glance noted a certain masterful look about his chin, and there was a warning, metallic ring in his voice that denoted a determination to overcome all obstacles and triumph by sheer force of will. She was not ready to listen to him yet, and, a ready evader of issues, chatted incessantly on the way to the car. He waited in grim patience, biding his time. As they neared the turn in the alley, she played her reserve card.
"Henry didn't think it prudent to bring the big car into the Jenkins'scul-de-sac,so he waited in the next street. I expect father will be there by this time. We dropped him at a factory near by, where he was to speak to some United Workmen."
Colette smiled at the drooping of John's features as he beheld her father ensconced in the tonneau.
"Oh, John! I am glad you were here to protect my little girl through these byways. I was just on the point of looking her up myself."
When the car stopped at the rectory and Colette bade John good-night, the resolute, forward thrust was still prominent in his chin.
He went straight to his study and wrote an ardent avowal of his love. Then he sealed the letter and dispatched it by special messenger. There would be no more suspense, he thought, for she would have to respond by a direct affirmation or negation.
In the tide of the Jenkins's prosperity there came the inevitable ebb. On the fateful Friday morning succeeding the concert, Mrs. Hudgers, looking from her window, saw a little group of children with books under their arms returning from school. Having no timepiece, she was accustomed to depend on the passing to and fro of the children for guidance as to the performance of her household affairs.
"My sakes, but twelve o'clock come quick to-day," she thought, as she kindled the fire and set the kettle over it in preparation of her midday meal.
A neighbor dropping in viewed these proceedings with surprise.
"Why, Mrs. Hudgers, ain't you et yer breakfast yet?"
"Of course I hev. I'm puttin' the kittle over fer my dinner."
"Dinner! why, it's only a half arter nine."
Mrs. Hudgers looked incredulous.
"I seen the chillern agoin' hum from school," she maintained.
"Them was the Jenkinses, Iry hez come down with the scarlit fever, and they're all in quarrytine."
"How you talk! Wait till I put the kittle offen the bile."
The two neighbors sat down to discuss this affliction with the ready sympathy of the poor for the poor. Their passing envy of the Jenkins's good fortune was instantly skimmed from the surface of their friendliness, which had only lain dormant and wanted but the touch of trouble to make them once more akin.
When the city physician had pronounced Iry's "spell" to be scarlet fever, the other members of the household were immediately summoned by emergency calls. The children came from school, Amarilly from the theatre, and the Boarder from his switch to hold an excited family conference.
"It's a good thing we got the washin's all hum afore Iry was took," declared the optimistic Amarilly.
"Thar's two things here yet," reported Mrs. Jenkins. "Gus come hum too late last night to take the preacher's surplus and Miss King's lace waist. You was so tired I didn't tell you, 'cause I know'd you'd be sot on goin' with them yourself. They're all did up."
"Well, they'll hev to stay right here with us and the fever," saidAmarilly philosophically.
At heart she secretly rejoiced in the retaining of these two garments, for they seemed to keep her in touch with their owners whom she would be unable to see until Iry had recovered.
"I don't see what we are going to do, Amarilly," said her mother despairingly. "Thar'll be nuthin' comin' in and so many extrys."
"No extrys," cheerfully assured the little comforter. "The city doctor'll take keer of Iry and bring the medicines. We hev laid by some sence we got the church wash. It'll tide us over till Iry gits well. We all need a vacation from work, anyhow."
At the beginning of the next week a ten-dollar bill came from Colette, "to buy jellies and things for Iry," she wrote. A similar contribution came from John Meredith.
"We air on Easy Street onct more!" cried Amarilly joyfully.
"I hate to take the money from them," sighed Mrs. Jenkins.
"We'll make it up to them when we kin work agin," consoled Amarilly."Better to take from friends than from the city. It won't be fer long.Iry seems to hev took it light, the doctor said."
This diagnosis proved correct, but it had not occurred to Amarilly in her prognostications that the question of the duration of the quarantine was not entirely dependent upon Iry's convalescence. Like a row of blocks the children, with the exception of Flamingus and Amarilly, in rapid succession came down with a mild form of the fever. Mrs. Jenkins and Amarilly divided the labors of cook and nurse, but the mainstay of the family was the Boarder. He aided in the housework, and as an entertainer of the sick he proved invaluable. He told stories, drew pictures, propounded riddles, whittled boats and animals, played "Beggar my Neighbor," and sang songs for the convalescent ward.
When the last cent of the Jenkins's reserve fund and the contributions from the rector and Colette had been exhausted, the Boarder put a willing hand in his pocket and drew forth his all to share with the afflicted family. There was one appalling night when the treasury was entirely depleted, and the larder was a veritable Mother Hubbard's cupboard.
"Something will come," prophesied Amarilly trustfully.
Something did come the next day in the shape of a donation of five dollars from Mr. Vedder, who had heard of the prolonged quarantine. Amarilly wept from gratitude and gladness.
"The perfesshun allers stand by each other," she murmured proudly.
This last act of charity kept the Jenkins's pot boiling until the premises were officially and thoroughly fumigated. Again famine threatened. The switch remained open to the Boarder, and he was once more on duty, but he had as yet drawn no wages, one morning there was nothing for breakfast.
"I'll pawn my ticker at noon," promised the Boarder, "and bring home something for dinner."
"There is lots of folks as goes without breakfast allers, from choice," informed Amarilly. "Miss Vail, the teacher at the Guild, says it's hygeniack."
"It won't hurt us and the boys," said Mrs. Jenkins, "but Iry and Co is too young to go hungry even if it be hygeniack."
"They ain't agoin' hungry," declared Amarilly. "I'll pervide fer them."
With a small pitcher under her cape she started bravely forth on a foraging expedition. After walking a few blocks she came to a white house whose woodhouse joined the alley. Hiding behind a barrel she watched and waited until a woman opened the back door and set a soup plate of milk on the lowest step.
"Come a kits! Come a kits!" she called shrilly, and then went back into the house.
The "kits" came on the run; so did Amarilly. She arrived first, and hastily emptied the contents of the soup plate into her pitcher. Then she fled, leaving two dismayed maltese kittens disconsolately lapping an empty dish.
"Here's milk for Iry," she announced, handing the pitcher to her mother."Now I'll go and get some breakfast for Co."
She returned presently with a sugared doughnut.
"Where did you borry the milk and nut-cake?" asked her mother wonderingly.
"I didn't borry them," replied Amarilly stoically. "I stole them."
"Stole them! Am-a-ril-ly Jenk-ins!"
"Twan't exackly stealin'," argued Amarilly cheerfully. "I took the milk from two little cats what git stuffed with milk every morning and night. The doughnut had jest been stuck in a parrot's cage. He hedn't tetched it. My! he swore fierce! I'd ruther steal, anyway, than let Iry and Co go hungry."
"What would the preacher say!" demanded her mother solemnly. "He would say it was wrong."
"He don't know nothin' about bein' hungry!" replied Amarilly defiantly."If he was ever as hungry as Iry, I bet he'd steal from a cat."
The season was now summer. Some time ago John Meredith had gone to the seashore and the King family to their summer home in the mountains, unaware that the fever had spread over so wide an area in the Jenkins domain. The theatre and St. Mark's were closed for the rest of the summer. The little boys found that their positions had been filled during the period of quarantine. None of these catastrophes, however, could be compared to the calamity of the realization that Bud alone of all the patients had not convalesced completely. He was a delicate little fellow, and he grew paler and thinner each day. In desperation Amarilly went to the doctor.
"Bud don't pick up," she said bluntly.
"I feared he wouldn't," replied the doctor.
"Can't you try some other kinds of medicines?"
"I can, but I am afraid that there is no medicine that will help him very much."
Amarilly turned pale.
"Is there anything else that will help him?" she demanded fiercely.
"If he could go to the seashore he might brace up. Sea air would work wonders for him."
"He shall go," said Amarilly with determination.
"I can get a week for him through the Fresh Air Fund," suggested the doctor.
He succeeded in getting two weeks, and, that time was extended another fortnight through the benevolence of Mr. Vedder.
Bud returned a study in reds and browns.
"The sea beats the theayter and the church all to smitherines,Amarilly!" he declared jubilantly. "I kin go to work now."
"No!" said Amarilly resolutely. "You air goin' to loaf through this hot weather until church and school open."
The family fund once more had a modest start. Mrs. Jenkins obtained a few of her old customers, Bobby got a paper route, Flamingus and Milton were again at work, but Amarilly, Gus, and Cory were without vocations.
Soon after the quarantine was lifted Amarilly went forth to deliver the surplice and the waist which had hung familiarly side by side during the weeks of trouble. The housekeeper at the rectory greeted her kindly and was most sympathetic on learning of the protracted confinement. She made Amarilly a present of the surplice.
"Mr. Meredith said you were to keep it. He thought your mother might find it useful. It is good linen, you know, and you can cut it up into clothes for the children. He has so many surplices, he won't miss this one."
"I'll never cut it up!" thought Amarilly as she reverently received the robe. "I'll keep it in 'membrance of him."
"It's orful good in him to give it to us," she said gratefully to the housekeeper.
That worthy woman smiled, remembering how the fastidious young rector had shrunk from the thought of wearing a fumigated garment.
At the King residence Amarilly saw the caretaker, who gave her a similar message regarding the lace waist.
"I'll keep it," thought Amarilly with a shy little blush, "until I'm merried. It'll start my trousseau."
She took the garments home, not mentioning to anyone the gift of the waist, however, for that was to be her secret—her first secret. She hid this nest-egg of her trousseau in an old trunk which she fastened securely.
On the next day she was summoned to help clean the theatre, which had been rented for one night by the St. Andrew's vested choir, whose members were to give a sacred concert. A rehearsal for this entertainment was being held when Amarilly arrived.
"These surplices are all too long or too short for me," complained the young tenor, who had recently been engaged for the solo parts.
Amarilly surveyed him critically.
"He's jest about Mr. St. John's size," she mused, "only he ain't so fine a shape."
With the thought came an inspiration that brought a quickly waged battle. It seemed sacrilegious, although she didn't express it by that word, to permit another to wear a garment so sacred to the memory of Mr. Meredith, but poverty, that kill-sentiment, had fully developed the practical side of Amarilly.
She made answer to her stabs of conscience by action instead of words, going straight to her friend, the ticket-seller.
"That feller," she said, indicating the tenor, "ain't satisfied with the fit of his surplus. I've got one jest his size. It's done up spick and span clean, and I'll rent it to him fer the show. He kin hev it fer the ev'nin' fer a dollar. Would you ask him fer me?"
"Certainly, Amarilly," he agreed.
He came back to her, smiling.
"He'll take it, but he seems to think your charge rather high—more than that of most costumers, he said."
"This ain't no common surplus," defended Amarilly loftily. "It was wore by the rector of St. Mark's, and he give it to me. It's of finer stuff than the choir surpluses, and it hez got a cross worked onto it, and a pocket in it, too."
"Of course such inducements should increase the value," confirmed Mr. Vedder gravely, and he proceeded to hold another colloquy with the twinkling-eyed tenor. Amarilly went home for the surplice and received therefor the sum of one dollar, which swelled the Jenkins's purse perceptibly.
And here began the mundane career of the minister's surplice.
Ever apt in following a lead, Amarilly at once resolved to establish a regular costuming business. It even occurred to her to hire out the lace waist, but thoughts of wedding bells prevailed against her impulse to open this branch of the business.
When the young tenor returned the surplice he informed Amarilly that two young ladies of his acquaintance were going to give a home entertainment for charity. Among the impromptu acts would be some tableaux, and the surplice was needed for a church scene. So the new venture brought in another dollar that week.
One day Bud came home capless, having crossed a bridge in a high wind.
"I seen an ad," said the thrifty Flamingus, "that the Beehive would give away baseball caps to-day."
Amarilly immediately set out for the Beehive, an emporium of fashion in the vicinity of the theatre. It was the noon hour, and there were no other customers in evidence.
The proprietor and a clerk were engaged in discussing the design for a window display, and were loath to notice their would-be beneficiary. Finally the clerk drawled out:
"Did you want anything, little girl?"
"I called," explained Amarilly with grandiose manner, "to git one of them caps you advertised to give away."
"Oh, those were all given out long ago. You should have come earlier," he replied with an air of relief, as he turned to resume the all-absorbing topic with the proprietor.
Amarilly's interest in the window display dispelled any disappointment she might have had in regard to Bud's head covering.
"Now," said the clerk didactically, "my idea is this. Have a wedding—a church wedding. I can rig up an altar, and we'll have the bride in a white, trailing gown; the groom, best man, and ushers in dress suits to advertise our gents' department, the bridesmaids and relatives in different colored evening dresses, and in this way we can announce our big clearing sale of summer goods in the ready-to-wear department. It'll make a swell window and draw crowds. Women can never get by a wedding."
"That's a dandy idea, Ben," approved the proprietor.
"Oh, I am a winner on ideas," vaunted the clerk chestily.
So was Amarilly. She stepped eagerly up to the window designer.
"Do you keep surpluses?"
"No; don't know what they are," replied the clerk shortly, turning from her. "We'll get a wreath of orange flowers for the bride, and then we can have a child carrying the ring, so as to call attention to our children's department."
"A surplus," explained Amarilly, scornful of such avowed ignorance, "is the white gown that Episcopal ministers wear."
"No; we don't keep them," was the impatient rejoinder.
"Well, I hev one," she said, addressing the proprietor this time, "a real minister's, and I'll rent it to you to put on your figger of the minister in your wedding window. He'll hev to wear one."
"I am not an Episcopalian," said the proprietor hesitatingly. "What do you think, Ben?"
"Well, it hadn't occurred to me to have an Episcopal wedding, but I don't know but what it would work out well, after all. It would make it attract notice more, and women are always daffy over Episcopal weddings. They like classy things. We could put a card in the window, saying all the clergy bought the linen for their surplices here. How," turning to Amarilly, "did you happen to have such an article?"
"We do the washin' fer St. Mark's church, and the minister give us one of his surpluses."
"The display will be in for six days. What will you rent it for that long?"
"I allers git a dollar a night fer it," replied Amarilly.
"Too much!" declared the clerk. "I'll give you fifty cents a day."
"I'll let it go six days fer four dollars," bargained Amarilly.
"Well, seeing you have come down on your offer, I'll come up a little on mine. I'll take it for three-fifty."
Amarilly considered.
"I will, if you'll throw in one of them caps fer my brother."
"All right," laughed the proprietor. "I think we'll call it a bargain.See if you can't dig up one of those caps for her, Ben."
Without much difficulty Ben produced a cap, and Amarilly hurried home for the surplice. She went down to the Beehive every day during the wedding-window week and feasted her eyes on the beloved gown. She took all the glory of the success of the display to her own credit, and her feelings were very much like those of the writer of a play on a first night.
From a wedding to a funeral was the natural evolution of a surplice, but this time it did not appear in its customary rôle. Instead of adorning a minister, it clad the corpse. Mrs. Hudgers's only son, a scalawag, who had been a constant drain on his mother's small stipend, was taken ill and died, to the discreetly disguised relief of the neighborhood.
"I'm agoin' to give Hallie a good funeral," Mrs. Hudgers confided toAmarilly. "I'm agoin' to hev hacks and flowers and singin' If yer St.Mark's man was to hum now, I should like to have him fishyate."
"Who will you git?" asked Amarilly interestedly.
"I'll hev the preacher from the meetin'-house on the hill, BrotherLonggrass."
"I wonder," speculated Amarilly, "if he'd like to wear the surplus?"
Foremost as the plumes of Henry of Navarre in battle were the surplice and the renting thereof in Amarilly's vision.
"I don't expect he could do that," replied Mrs. Hudgers doubtfully. "His church most likely wouldn't stand fer it. Brother Longgrass is real kind if he ain't my sort. He's agoin' to let the boys run the maylodeun down here the night afore the funyral."
"Who's agoin' to sing?"
"I dunno yit. I left it to the preacher. He said he'd git me a picked choir, whatever that may be."
"My! But you'll hev a fine funeral!" exclaimed Amarilly admiringly.
"I allers did say that when Hallie got merried, or died, things should be done right. Thar's jest one thing I can't hev."
"What's that, Mrs. Hudgers?"
"Why, you see, Amarilly, Hallie's clo'es air sort of shabby-like, and when we git him in that shiny new caskit, they air agoin' to show up orful seedy. But I can't afford ter buy him a new suit jest for this onct."
"Couldn't you rent a suit?" asked Amarilly, her ruling passion for business still dominating.
"No; I jest can't, Amarilly. It's costin' me too much now."
"I know it is," sympathized Amarilly, concentrating her mind on the puzzling solution of Hallie's habiliment.
"Mrs. Hudgers," she exclaimed suddenly, "why can't you put the surplus on Hallie? You kin slip it on over his suit, and when the funeral's over, and they hev all looked at the corpse, you kin take it offen him."
"Oh, that would be sweet!" cried Mrs. Hudgers, brightening perceptibly. "Hallie would look beautiful in it, and 'twould be diffrent from any one else's funeral. How you allers think of things, Amarilly! But I ain't got no dollar to pay you fer it."
"If you did hev one," replied Amarilly Indignantly, "I shouldn't let you pay fer it. We're neighbors, and what I kin do fer Hallie I want ter do."
"Well, Amarilly, it's certainly fine fer you to feel that way. You don't think," she added with sudden apprehension, "that they'd think the surplus was Hallie's nightshirt, do you?"
"Oh, no!" protested Amarilly, shocked at such a supposition. "Besides, you kin tell them all that Hallie's laid out in a surplus. They all seen them to the concert."
The funeral passed off with great éclat. The picked choir had resonant voices, and Brother Longgrass preached one of his longest sermons, considerately omitting reference to any of the characteristics of the deceased. Mrs. Hudgers was suitably attired in donated and dusty black. The extremely unconventional garb of Hallie caused some little comment, but it was commonly supposed to be a part of the Episcopalian spirit which the Jenkinses seemed to be inculcating in the neighborhood. Brother Longgrass was a little startled upon beholding the white-robed corpse, but perceiving what comfort it brought to the afflicted mother, he magnanimously forbore to allude to the matter.
After the remains had been viewed for the last time, the surplice was removed. In the evening Amarilly called for it.
"He did look handsome in it," commented Mrs. Hudgers with a satisfied, reminiscent smile. "I wish I might of hed his likeness took. I'm agoin' to make you take hum this pan of fried cakes Mrs. Holdock fetched in. They'll help fill up the chillern."
"I don't want to rob you, Mrs. Hudgers," said Amarilly, gazing longingly at the doughnuts, which were classed as luxuries in the Jenkins's menu.
"I dassent eat 'em, Amarilly. If I et jest one, I'd hev dyspepsy orful, and folks hez brung in enough stuff to kill me now. It does beat all the way they bring vittles to a house of mournin'! I only wish Hallie could hev some of 'em."
The surplice, carefully laundered after the funeral, was ready for new fields of labor. The tenor, first patron of Amarilly's costuming establishment, was wont to loiter in the studio of an artist he knew and relate his about-town adventures. This artist was interested in the annals of the little scrub-girl and her means of livelihood.
"I have in mind," he said musingly, "a picture of a musician, the light to be streaming through a stained window on his uplifted head as he sits at an organ."
"The Lost Chord?" inquired the tenor.
"Nothing quite so bromidic as that," laughed the artist. "I have my model engaged, and I had intended to have you borrow a surplice for me, but you may ask your little customer to rent me her gown for a couple of days."
On receipt of this request delivered through the medium of the ticket- seller, Amarilly promptly appeared at the studio. She was gravely and courteously received by the artist, Derry Phillips, an easy-mannered youth, slim and supple, with dark, laughing eyes. When they had transacted the business pertaining to the rental of the surplice, Amarilly arose from her chair with apparent reluctance. This was a new atmosphere, and she was fascinated by the pictures and the general air of artistic disarrangement which she felt but could not account for.
"'Tain't exactly the kind of place to tidy," she reflected, "but it needs cleaning turrible."
"Do you like pictures?" asked the young artist, following her gaze."Stay a while and look at them, if you wish."
Amarilly readily availed herself of this permission, and rummaged about the rooms while Derry pursued his work. Upon the completion of her tour of inspection, he noticed a decided look of disapproval upon her face.
"What is the matter, Miss Jenkins? Aren't the pictures true to life?" he inquired with feigned anxiety.
"The picters is all right," replied Amarilly, "but—"
"But what?" he urged expectantly.
"Your rooms need reddin' up. Thar's an orful lot of dust. Yer things will spile."
"Oh, dust, you know, to the artistic temperament, is merely a little misplaced matter."
"'Tain't only misplaced. It's stuck tight," contended Amarilly.
"Dear me! And to think that I was contemplating a studio tea to some people day after to-morrow, I suppose it really should be 'red up' again. Honestly though, I engage a woman who come every week and clean the rooms."
"She's imposed on you," said Amarilly indignantly. "She's swept the dirt up agin the mopboards and left it thar, and she hez only jest skimmed over things with a dust-cloth. It ain't done thorough."
"And are you quite proficient as ablanchisseuse?"
Amarilly looked at him unperturbed.
"I kin scrub," she remarked calmly.
"I stand rebuked. Scrubbing is what they need. If you will come to-morrow morning and put these rooms in order, I will give you a dollar and your midday meal."
Amarilly, well satisfied with her new opening, closed the bargain instantly.
The next morning at seven o'clock she rang the studio bell. The artist, attired in a bathrobe and rubbing his eyes sleepily, opened the door.
"This was the day I was to clean," reminded Amarilly reprovingly.
"To be sure. But why so early? I thought you were a telegram."
"Early! It's seven o'clock."
"I still claim it's early. I have only been in bed four hours."
"Well, you kin go back to bed. I'll work orful quiet."
"And I can trust you not to touch any of the pictures or move anything?"
"I'll be keerful," Amarilly assured him. "Jest show me whar to het up the water. I brung the soap and a brush."
The artist lighted a gas stove, and, after carefully donning a long- sleeved apron, Amarilly put the water on and began operations. Her eyes shone with anticipation as she looked about her.
"I'm glad it's so dirty," she remarked. "It's more interestin' to clean a dirty place. Then what you do shows up, and you feel you earnt your money."
With a laugh the artist returned to his bedroom, whence he emerged three hours later.
"This room is all cleaned," announced Amarilly. "It took me so long 'cause it's so orful big and then 'twas so turrible dirty."
"You must have worked like a little Trojan. Now stop a bit while I prepare my breakfast."
"Kin you cook?" asked Amarilly in astonishment.
"I can make coffee and poach eggs. Come into my butler's pantry and watch me."
Amarilly followed him into a small apartment and was initiated into the mysteries of electric toasters and percolators.
He tried in vain to induce her to share his meal with him, but she protested.
"I hed my breakfast at five-thirty. I don't eat agin till noon."
"Oh, Miss Jenkins! You have no artistic temperament or you would not cling to ironclad rules."
"My name's Amarilly," she answered shortly. "I ain't old enough to be 'missed' yet."
"I beg your pardon, Amarilly. You seem any age," he replied, sitting down to his breakfast, "You are not too old, then, for me to ask what your age is—in years?"
"I jest got into my teens."
"Thirteen. And I am ten years older. When is your birthday?"
"It's ben. It was the fust of June."
"Why, Amarilly," jumping up and holding out his hand, "we are twins!That is my birthday."
"And you are twenty-three."
"Right you are. That is my age at the present moment. Last night I was far older, and to-morrow, mayhap, I'll be years younger."
"Be you a Christian Science?" she asked doubtfully.
"Lord, no, child! I am an artist. What made you ask that?"
"'Cause they don't believe in age. Miss Jupperskin told me about 'em.She's workin' up to it. But I must go back to my work."
"So must I, Amarilly. My model will be here in a few moments to don your surplice. If you want to clean up my breakfast dishes you may do so, and then tackle the bedroom and the rest of the apartment."
Three hours later, Amarilly went into the studio. The model had gone, and the artist stood before his easel surveying his sketch with approval.
"This is going to be a good picture, Amarilly. The model caught my idea.There is some fore—"
"Mr. Phillips!"
"My name is Derry. I am too young to be 'mistered.'"
There was no response, and with a smile he turned inquiringly toward her. There was a wan little droop about the corners of her eyes and lips that brought contrition to his boyish heart.
"Amarilly you are tired! You have worked too steadily. Sit down and rest awhile."
"'Tain't that! I'm hungry. Kin I het up the coffee and—"
"Good gracious, Amarilly! I forgot you ate at regular, stated intervals. We will go right out now to a nice little restaurant near by and eat our luncheon together."
Amarilly flushed.
"Thank you, Mr. Derry. That's orful nice in you, but I'd ruther eat here. Thar's the toast and coffee to het, and an aig—"
"No! You are going to have a good, square meal and eat it with me. You see I had to eat my birthday dinner all alone, so we'll celebrate the first of June now, together. Slip off your apron. By the way, some day I shall paint a picture of you in that apron scrubbing my 'mopboard.'"
Amarilly shook her head.
"I don't look fit to go nowhars with you, Mr. Derry."
"Vanitas, and the rest of it! Oh, Amarilly, only thirteen, and the ruling passion of your sex already in full sway!"
"It's on your account that I'm ashamed," she said in defence of his accusation. "I'd want ter look nice fer you."
"That's sweet of you, Amarilly; but if you really want to look nice, don't think of your clothes. It's other things. Think of your hair, for instance. It's your best point, and yet you hide it under a bushel and, worse than that, you braid it so tight I verily believe it's wired."
"I'm used to bein' teased about my red head," she replied. "I don't keer."
"It's a glorious red, Amarilly. The color the vulgar jeer at, and artists like your friend and twin, Derry, rave over. You're what is called 'Titian-haired,'"
"Are you makin' fun, Mr. Derry?" she asked suspiciously.
"No, Amarilly; seriously, I think it the loveliest shade of hair there is, and now I am going to show you how you should wear it. Unbind it, all four of those skin-tight braids."
She obeyed him, and a loosened, thick mass of hair fell below her waist.
"Glorious!" he cried fervidly. "Take that comb from the top of your head and comb it out. There! Now part it, and catch up these strands loosely—so. I must find a ribbon for a bow. What color would you suggest, Amarilly?"
"Brown."
"Bravo, Amarilly. If you had said blue, I should have lost all faith in your future upcoming. Here are two most beautiful brown bows on this thingamajig some one gave me last Christmas, and whose claim on creation I never discovered. Let me braid your hair loosely for two and one-quarter inches. One bow here—another there. Look in the glass, Amarilly. If I give you these bows will you promise me never to wear your hair in any other fashion until you are sixteen at least? Off with your apron! It's picturesque, but soapy and exceedingly wet. You won't need a hat. It's only around the corner, and I want your hair to be observed and admired."
Amarilly gained assurance from the reflection of her hair in the mirror, and they started gayly forth like two school children out for a lark. He ushered her into a quiet little café that had an air of pronounced elegance about it. In a secluded corner behind some palms came the subdued notes of stringed instruments. Derry seemed to be well known here, and his waiter viewed his approach with an air of proprietorship.
"It's dead quiet here," thought Amarilly wonderingly. "Like a church."
It was beginning to dawn upon her alert little brain that real things were all quiet, not noisy like the theatre.
"What shall we have first, Amarilly?" inquired her new friend with mock deference. "Bouillon?"
Amarilly, recalling the one time in her life when she had had "luncheon," replied casually that she preferred fruit, and suggested a melon.
"Good, Amarilly! You are a natural epicure. Fruit, certainly, on a warm day like this. I shall let you select all the courses. What next?"
"Lobster," she replied nonchalantly.
"Fine! And then?"
"Grapefruit salad."
He looked at her in amazement, and reflected that she had doubtless been employed in some capacity that had made her acquainted with luncheon menus.
"And," concluded Amarilly, without waiting for prompting, "I think an ice would be about right. And coffee in a little cup, and some cheese."
"By all means, Amarilly," he responded humbly. "And what kind of cheese, please?"
"Now I'm stumped," thought Amarilly ruefully, "fer I can't 'member how to speak the kind she hed."
"Most any kind," she said loftily, "except that kind you put in mousetraps."
"Oh, Amarilly, you are a true aristocrat! How comes it that you scrub floors? Is it on a bet?"
The waiter came up and said something to the artist in a low tone, andDerry replied hastily:
"Nothing to-day." Then, turning to Amarilly, he asked her if she would like a glass of milk. Upon her assent, he ordered two glasses of milk, to the veiled surprise of the waiter.
When the luncheon was served, Amarilly, by reason of her good memory, was still at ease. The children at the Guild school had been given a few general rules in table deportment, but Amarilly had followed every movement of Colette's so faithfully at the eventful luncheon that she ate very slowly, used the proper forks and spoons, and won Derry's undisguised admiration.
"Mr. Vedder's, good," she thought. "Mr. St. John's grand, but this 'ere Mr. Derry's folksy. I'd be skeert settin' here eatin' with Mr. St. John, but this feller's only a kid, and I feel quite to hum with him."
"Amarilly," he said confidentially, as they were sipping their coffee from "little cups," "you are truthful, I know. Will you be perfectly frank with me and answer a question?"
"Mebby," she replied warily.
"Did you ever eat a luncheon like this before?"
"I never seen the inside of a restyrant afore," she replied.
"Now you are fencing. I mean, did you ever have the same things to eat that we had just now?"
Amarilly hesitated, longing to mystify him further, but it came over her in a rush how very kind he had been to her.
"Yes, I hev. I'll tell you all about it."
"Good! An after-dinner story! Beat her up, Amarilly!"
So she told him of her patroness and the luncheon she had eaten at her house.
"And I watched how she et and done, and she tole me the names of the things we hed. I writ them out, and that was my lesson that night with the Boarder."
Then, of course, Derry must know all about the Boarder and the brothers. After she had finished her faithful descriptions, it was time to return to the studio. Her quick, keen eyes had noted the size of the bill Derry had put on the salver, and the small amount of change he had received. She walked home beside him in troubled silence.
"What's the matter, Amarilly?" he asked as she was buttoning on her apron preparatory to resuming work. "Didn't the luncheon agree with you, or are you mad at me? And for why, pray?"
Amarilly's thin little face flushed and a tear came into each thoughtful eye.
"I hedn't orter to hev tole you ter git all them things. I was atryin' ter be smart and show off, but, honest, I didn't know they was agoin' ter cost so much. I ain't agoin' ter take no money fer the cleanin', and that'll help some."
Derry laughed rapturously.
"My dear child!" he exclaimed, when he could speak. "You are a veritable little field daisy. You really saved me money by going with me. If I had gone alone, I should have spent twice as much."
"How could that be?" she asked unbelievingly. "You would only hev give one order, so 'twould hev ben jest half as much."
"But if you had not been with me, I should have had a cocktail and a bottle of wine, which would have cost more than our meal. Out of deference to your youth and other things, I forbore to indulge. So you see I saved money by having you along. And then it was much better for me not to have had those libations."
"Honest true?"
"Honest true, hope to die! Cross my heart and all the rest of it! I'd lie cheerfully to some people, but never to you, Amarilly."
"My. Reeves-Eggleston—he's on the stage—said artists was allers poor."
"That's one reason why I am not an artist—a great artist. I am hampered by an inheritance that allows me to live without working, so I don't do anything worth while. I only dabble at this and that. Some day, maybe, I'll have an inspiration."
"Go to work now," she admonished.
"I must perforce. My model's foot is on the stair."
Amarilly left the studio to resume her cleaning. At five o'clock she came back. Derry stood at the window, working furiously at some fleecy clouds sailing over a cerulean sky. She was about to speak, but discerning that he must work speedily and uninterruptedly to keep pace with the shifting clouds, she refrained.
"There!" he said. "I got it. You were a good little girl not to interrupt me, Amarilly."
"It's beautiful!" gasped Amarilly. "I was afeard you'd git the sky blue instead of purplish and that you'd make the clouds too white."
"Amarilly, you've the soul of an artist! In you I have found a true critic."
"Come and see if the rooms is all right. I got 'em real clean. Every nook and corner. And—"
"I know you did, Amarilly, without looking. I can smell the clean from here."
"If thar's nothin' more you want did, I'll go hum."
"Here's a dollar for the rooms and two dollars for the surplice. Amarilly, you were glad to learn table manners from Miss King, weren't you?"
"Yes; I like to larn all I kin."
"Then, will you let me teach you something?"
"Sure!" she acquiesced quickly.
"There are two things you must do for me. Never say 'et'; say 'ate' instead. Then you must say 'can'; not 'kin.' It will be hard to remember at first, but every time you forget and make a mistake, remember to-day and our jolly little luncheon, will you?"
"I will, and Ican, Mr. Derry."
"You're an apt little pupil, Amarilly, and I am going to teach you two words every time you come."
"Oh!" exclaimed Amarilly, brightening. "Will you want me ter come agin?"
"Indeed I shall. I am going away next week to the mountains for a couple of months. When I come back, I am going to have you come every morning at nine o'clock. You can prepare and serve my simple breakfast and clean my rooms every day. Then they won't get so disreputable. I will pay you what they do at the theatre, and it will not be such hard work. Will you enjoy it as well?"
"Oh, better!" exclaimed Amarilly.
And with this naive admission died the last spark of Amarilly's stage-lust.
"Then consider yourself engaged. You can call for the surplice to-morrow afternoon at this hour."
"Thank you, Mr. Derry."
She hesitated, and then awkwardly extended her hand, which he shook most cordially.
"Thank you for a day's entertainment, Amarilly. I haven't been bored once. You have very nice hands," looking down at the one he still held.
She reddened and jerked her hand quickly away.
"Now youarekiddin'! They're redder than my hair, and rough and big."
"I repeat, Amarilly, you have nice hands. It isn't size and color that counts; it's shape, and from an artist's standpoint you have shapely hands. Now will you be good, and shake hands with me in a perfectly ladylike way? Thank you, Amarilly."
"Thankyou, Mr. Derry. It's the beautifulest day I ever hed. Better'n the matinée or the Guild or—" she drew a quick breath and said in a scared whisper—"the church!"
"I am flattered, Amarilly. We shall have many ruby-lettered days like it."
The next afternoon Amarilly called at the studio for the surplice.
"I am glad to see you have your hair fixed as I told you, Amarilly," wasDerry's greeting. "And have you remembered the other things I told you?"
"I hev' writ out 'can' and 'ate' in big letters and pinned 'em up on the wall. I can say 'em right every time now."
"Of course you can! And for a reward here's a dollar with which to buy some black velvet hair-ribbons. Never put any color but black or brown near your hair, Amarilly."
"No, Mr. Derry; but I don't want to take the dollar."
"See here, Amarilly! You're to be my little housemaid, and the uniform is always provided. Instead of buying you a cap and apron, I prefer to furnish velvet hair-ribbons. Take it, and get a good quality silk velvet. And now, good-by for two months. I will let you know when I am home so that you may begin on your duties."
"Good-by, Mr. Derry," said the little girl artlessly. "And thar's something I'd like to say to you, if you don't mind."
"You may say anything—everything—to me, Amarilly."
"When you go to eat, won't you order jest as ef I was with you—nothin' more?"
His fair boyish face reddened slightly, and then a serious look came into his dancing eyes.
"By Jove, Amarilly! I've been wishing some girl who really meant it, who really cared, would say that to me. You put it very delicately and sweetly. I'll—yes, I'll do it all the time I'm gone. There's my hand on it. Good-by, Amarilly."
"Good-by, Mr. Derry."
Amarilly walked home very slowly, trying to think of a way to realize again from the surplice.
"I'm afeerd I won't find a place to rent it right away," she sighed.
Looking up, she saw the Boarder. A slender, shy slip of a girl had his arm, and he was gazing into her intent eyes with a look of adoration.
"Oh, the Boarder is in love!" gasped Amarilly; her responsive little heart leaping in sympathetic interest. "That's why he's wore a blue necktie the last few days. Lord Algernon said that was allers a sure sign."
She tactfully slipped around a corner, unseen by the entranced couple.
That night, as he was lighting his after-supper pipe, the Boarder remarked casually:
"I'd like to rent the surplus fer an hour to-morrer, Amarilly."
"Why, what on airth can you do with it?" was the astonished query.
The Boarder looked sheepish.
"You see, Amarilly, I'm akeepin' stiddy company with a little gal."
"I seen you and her this arternoon. She's orful purty," said Amarilly reflectively. "She looked kinder delikit, though. What's her name?"
"Lily—Lily Rose. Ain't that a purty name?"
"Beautiful. The lily part jest suits her. She's like a flower—a white flower. But what do you want the surplus fer?"
"You see," began the Boarder, coming by circuitous route to his subject, "gals git notions in their heads sometimes when they air in—"
"Love," promptly supplied the comprehending little girl.
"Yes," he assented with a fiery blush. "And she wants fer me to hev my likeness took so I kin give it to her."
"Thar ain't nothin' foolish about that!" declared Amarilly.
"No; but I never sot fer one yet. I wouldn't mind, but you see she's got it in her head that I am good-looking—"
"Well, you be," corroborated Amarilly decisively.
"And she wants me fer to dress up like a preacher. I told her about Hallie Hudgers lookin' so swell in the surplus, and she wants, as I should dress up in it and set fer my likeness in it."
"I think it would be fine!" approved Amarilly. "You sure would look nicer nor Hallie did."
"Well, I wouldn't look like a dead one," admitted the Boarder. "But I was orful afraid you'd laugh. Then I kin rent it fer an hour to-morrer ef it ain't got no other dates."
"You can'trentit. You can take it fer an hour, or so long as you like," she assured him.
"You'll hev to take a quarter anyway, fer luck. Mebby 'twill bring me luck awinnin' her."
The photograph of the Boarder in saintly attire was pronounced a great success. Before the presentation he had it set in a frame made of gilt network studded with shells.
Lily Rose spent her leisure moments gazing upon it with the dream- centred eyes of a young devotee before a shrine.
The next wearing of the surplice was more in accord with its original design. In the precinct adjoining the one in which lived and let live the Jenkins family, a colored Episcopal church had recently been established. The rector had but one surplice, and that had been stolen from the clothes-line, mayhap by one of his dusky flock; thus it was that Amarilly received a call from the Reverend Virgil Washington, who had heard of the errant surplice, which he offered to purchase.
Naturally his proposition was met by a firm and unalterable refusal. It would have been like selling a golden goose to dispose of such a profitable commodity. He then asked to rent it for a Sunday while he was having one made. This application, being quite in Amarilly's line of business, met with a ready assent.
"You can hev it fer a dollar," she offered.
The bargain was finally closed, although it gave Amarilly more than a passing pang to think of the snowy folds of Mr. St. John's garment adorning an Ethiopian form.
One day there came to the Jenkins home a most unusual caller. The novel presence of the "mailman" at their door brought every neighbor to post of observation. His call was for the purpose of leaving a gayly-colored postal card addressed to "Miss Amarilly Jenkins." It was from Derry, and she spent many happy moments in deciphering it. His writing was microscopic, and he managed to convey a great deal of information in the allotted small space. He inquired solicitously concerning the surplice, and bade her be a good girl and not forget the two words he had taught her. "I have ordered all my meals as though you were with me," he wrote in conclusion.
Amarilly laid the card away with her wedding waist. Then, with theBoarder's aid, she indited an answer on a card that depicted the BarlowTheatre.
The next event for Amarilly was an invitation to attend the wedding of Mrs. Hubbleston, a buxom, bustling widow for whom Mrs. Jenkins washed. In delivering the clothes, Amarilly had come to be on very friendly terms with the big, light-hearted woman, and so she had been asked to assist in the serving of refreshments on the eventful night.
"I've never been to a wedding," said Amarilly wistfully. "I've been to most everything else, and I would like to see you wed, but I ain't got no clo'es 'cept my hair-ribbons."
Mrs. Hubbleston looked at her contemplatively.
"My last husband's niece's little girl left a dress here once when she was going home after a visit. She had hardly worn it, but she had outgrown it, and her ma told me to give it away. I had 'most forgotten about it. I believe it would just fit you. Let us see."
She produced a white dress that adjusted itself comfortably toAmarilly's form.
"You look real pretty in white, Amarilly. You shall have this dress for your own."
On the nuptial night Amarilly, clad in the white gown and with black velvet hair-ribbons, went forth at an early hour to the house of festivity.
Mrs. Hubbleston, resplendent in a glittering jetted gown, came into the kitchen to see that things were progressing properly.
"Ain't you flustered?" asked Amarilly, looking at her in awe.
"Land, no, child! I have been married four times before this, you see, so it comes natural. There goes the doorbell. It must be Mr. Jimmels and the minister."
In a few moments she returned to the kitchen for sympathy.
"I am so disappointed," she sighed, "but then, I might have expected something would happen. It always does at my weddings."
"What is it?" asked Amarilly, apprehensive lest the wedding might be declared off.
"I've been married once by a Baptist minister, once by a Methodist, and the third time by a Congregationalist; last time a Unitarian tied the knot. So this once I thought I would have an Episcopal, because their white robe lends tone. And Rev. Mr. Woodthorn has come without his. He says he never brings it to the house weddings unless specially requested. He lives clear across the city, and the carriage has gone away."
"Oh, I have a surplus!" cried Amarilly enthusiastically. "I'll telephone our grocer. Milt's ahelpin' him to-night, and he can ride over here on the grocer's wheel and fetch it."
"Why, how in the world did you come by such a thing as a surplice?" asked the widow in surprise.
Amarilly quickly explained, and then telephoned to her brother.
"He says he'll be over here in a jiffy," she announced. "And ain't it lucky, it's jest been did up clean!"
"My, but that's fortunate! It'll be the making of my wedding. I shall give you a dollar for the use of it, the same as those others did."
"No!" objected Amarilly. "Ill be more than glad to let you hev it arter your givin' me this fine dress."
"I'll have Mr. Jimmels pay you for it. He can take a dollar out of the fee for the minister. It will serve him right for not bringing all his trappings with him."
Amarilly's sense of justice was appeased by this arrangement. She went into the double parlors to witness the ceremony, which gave her a few little heart thrills.
"Them words sounds orful nice," she thought approvingly. "The Boarder and Lily Rose must hev an Episcopal fer to marry them. I wonder if I'll ever get to Miss King's and Mr. St. John's weddin' or Mr. Derry's; but I guess he'll never be married. He jokes too much to be thinkin' of sech things." Then came the thought of her own wedding garment awaiting its destiny.
"I ain't even hed a beau, yet," she sighed, "but the Boarder says that I will—that red-headed girls ain't never old maids from ch'ice."
With this sustaining thought, she proceeded to the dining-room. She had been taught at the Guild how to wait on table, and she proved herself to be very deft and capable in putting her instructions into effect.
"Here's two dollars," the complacent bride said to Amarilly before departing. "One is for serving so nicely, and one is for the surplice. I told them in the kitchen to put you up a basket of things to take home to the children."
Amarilly thanked her profusely and then went home. She deposited her two dollars in the family exchequer, and proceeded to distribute the contents of the basket.
"Now, set around the table here, and take what I give you. Thar ain't enough of one thing to go hull way round, except fer ma. She's agoin' to hev some of each. Yes, you be, ma. This here baskit's mine. Here's a sandwich, some chicken, salid, jell, two kinds of cake, and some ice- cream fer you. Bud can hev first pick now, 'cause he ain't so strong as the rest of you. All right, Bud; take the rest of the ice-cream and some cake."
"'Tain't fair! I'm a girl, and I'm younger than Bud. I'd orter choose first," sobbed Cory.
"Shut up, Co! You'll wake Iry, and then he'll hev to hev something, and if he sleeps right through, thar'll be jest so much more fer you. 'Twon't hurt him to miss what he don't know about. All right, Cory, you can hev cake and jell. That's a good boy, Bud, to give her two tastes of the cream, and ma'll give you two more. Bobby? Sandwiches and pickle. Milt? Chicken and salid. Flammy and Gus, pickle and sandwich is all that's left fer you. The rest of this chicken is agoin' into the Boarder's dinner pail to-morrer."
Milton came home from the grocery one night with a telephone message from Mr. Vedder requesting Amarilly to bring the surplice to his rooms on the next day.
"How is business?" asked the ticket-seller kindly, when the little girl appeared in answer to his summons.
"Fine! The surplus has brung in nine dollars and seventy-five cents a'ready. It's kept things goin'."
"The theatre will open in a couple of weeks, and then you will have steady work, though I wish we might get an easier and pleasanter occupation for you."
"I'm agoin' to hev one, Mr. Vedder," and she proceeded to tell him ofDerry and her engagement at his studio.
"It kinder seems as if I b'longed to the theayter, and you've been so orful kind to me, Mr. Vedder, that it'll seem strange-like not to be here, but Mr. Phillips's work'll be a snap fer me."
"You've been a good, faithful little girl, Amarilly, and I shall want to keep track of you and see you occasionally, so I am going to give you a pass to every Saturday matinée during the winter."
"Oh, Mr. Vedder, there's been no one so good as you've been to me! And you never laugh at me like other folks do."
"No, indeed, child! Why should I? But I never knew before that you had such beautiful hair!"
"It's 'cause it's fixed better," said Amarilly with a blush. "But who wants the surplus this time?"
"I do," he replied smiling. "I am invited to a sheet and pillow-case party. I thought this surplice would be more comfortable than a sheet. Here's a dollar for it."
"No," declined Amarilly firmly. "Not arter all you've done fer us. I won't take it."
"Amarilly," he said earnestly. "I have no one in the world to do anything for, and sometimes, when I get to thinking about it, I am very lonely. So if you want to be kind to me, you will give me the pleasure of helping you a little now and then. I shall not enjoy the party unless you will take the money."
Amarilly cried a little that night, thinking how good he was.
"I hed orter like him best of all," she thought reproachfully.
Two or three days later Pete Noyes came to the house.
"Hello, Amarilly! I ain't seen yer in so long I'd fergit how you looked. Say, why didn't you ever fix yer hair that way afore? It looks swell, even if it is red!"
"I am older now," she explained in superior, lofty tones, "and of courseI hev to think more about my looks than I used ter."
He gazed at her with such ardent admiration that she was seized with an impulse to don her white dress and impress his young fancy still further.
"He ain't wuth it, though," her sober second thought decided.
"What does yer think I come fer, Amarilly?"
"I dunno, 'less Mr. Vedder sent you."
"He did, sorter. You see, I'm invited to one of them kind of parties whar you dress up ter be the name of a book. One of the stock company is givin' it fer her kids. I don't know the name of any book exceptDiamond DickandThe Curse of Gold, and I didn't know how to rig up fer them. I went to Vedder, and he sez thar's a book what's calledThe Little Minister, and I could rent yer surplus and tog out in it. He said you would take tucks in it fer me."
"Sure I will. I'll fix it now while you wait, Pete."
"Say, Amarilly, I thought as how, seein' we are both in the perfesshun, sorter, you'd come down on your price."
"Sure thing, Pete. I won't charge you nothin' fer it."
"Yes; I wanter pay. I'll tell you what, Amarilly, couldn't you take it out in gum? I hed a hull lot left over when the theayter shut down. It'll git stale ef I keep it much longer, and I'd like to git some of it offen my hands."
"Sure, I will, Pete. We all like gum, and we can't afford to buy it very often. That'll be dandy."
Thus it was that for the next fortnight the Jenkins family revelled in the indulgence of a hitherto denied but dearly prized luxury. Their jaws worked constantly and joyously, although differently. Mrs. Jenkins, by reason of depending upon her third set of teeth, chewed cautiously and with camel-like precision. The Boarder, having had long practice in the art, craunched at railway speed. The older boys munched steadily and easily, while Bud and Bobby pecked intermittently in short nibbles. Amarilly had the "star method," which they all vainly tried to emulate. At short and regular intervals a torpedo-like report issued from the gum as she snapped her teeth down upon it. Cory kept hers strung out elastically from her mouth, occasionally rolling it back.
The liberal supply of the luxury rapidly diminished, owing to the fact that Iry swallowed his allowance after ineffectual efforts to retain it in his mouth, and then like Oliver Twist pleaded for more.
"I declare fer it!" remarked Mrs. Hudgers to Amarilly. "That child's insides will all be stuck together. I should think yer ma would be afeard to let him chaw so much."
"He's ateethin', and it sorter soothes his gums," explained Amarilly.
During the summer season, Pete had pursued his profession at a vaudeville theatre, and one day, not long after his literary representation, he came to Amarilly with some good tidings.
"I hev another job fer yer surplus. Down to the vawdyville they're goin' to put on a piece what has a preacher in it, and I tole them about yer surplus, and the leadin' man, who is to be the preacher, says 'twould lend to the settin's to wear it. I told him mebby you'd let him hev the use on it fer a week fer five dollars. He said he could buy the stuff and make a dozen fer that price, but they gotter start the piece to-night so that'd be no time to make one. I'll take it down to them to-night."
This was the longest and most remunerative act of the surplice, and served to pay for a very long accruing milk bill. When the engagement at the vaudeville ended, the Boarder came to the rescue.
"Thar's a friend of mine what brakes, and he wants the surplus to wear to a maskyrade. I told him he could go as a preacher. He's asavin' to git merried, so he don't want to give much."
"He shell hev it fer a quarter," said Amarilly, friend to all lovers, "and I'll lend him a mask. I hev one the property man at the theayter give me."