"I wonder," meditated Gus, "where the surplus will land next?"
"It has been most everywhere except to the police court," said Bobby."'Spect 'twill land there next!"
His prophecy was fulfilled. Mrs. Jenkins washed the lucrative garment late one afternoon and left it on the line all night. The next morning, to the great consternation of the family and the wild distress of Amarilly, the beloved surplice, that friend of friends in time of need, had vanished. Other clotheslines in the vicinity had also been deprived of their burdens, and a concerted complaint was made to the police, who promptly located the offender and brought him summarily to trial. Mrs. Jenkins was subpoenaed as a witness, which caused quite a ripple of excitement in the family. Divided between dread of appearing in public and pride at the importance with which she was regarded by her little flock, Mrs. Jenkins was quite upset by the occasion. She hadn't attended a function for so long that her costuming therefor was of more concern than had been Amarilly's church raiment.
Mrs. Hudgers loaned her mourning bonnet and veil, which was adjusted at half mast. They appeared in direct contradiction to the skirt of bilious green she wore, but the Jenkinses were as unconventional in attire as they were in other things.
The family attended the trialen masse, and were greatly elated at the prominence their mother had attained. The culprit was convicted and the surplice duly restored. The misfortune was not without profit. Mrs. Jenkins received thirty-five cents as a witness fee.
They had managed to pay their household expenses through the summer, but when the rent for August was due there was not quite enough cash on hand to meet this important item of expenditure. Noting the troubled brows of Mrs. Jenkins and Amarilly at breakfast time, the Boarder insisted on knowing the cause.
"We're broke, and the rent's overdue," tersely explained Amarilly.
"I'm broke, too," sighed the Boarder, "except what I've got in the savin's bank towards—"
"Lily Rose," suggested Amarilly softly.
"Yes," he admitted, with a beaming look. "But when I go broke, all other things failin', I allers tackle a pawnbroker."
"We ain't got nothin' to pawn," sighed Amarilly.
She recalled the lace waist, but that, like the Lily Rose fund, was sacred. There was always, to-day, yesterday, and forever, the surplice, and her scruples regarding that article had of necessity become case- hardened; still, Amarilly hesitated. A pawnshop seemed lower than a police court.
"It's been everywhere else," she said loudly to the accusing, still, small voice, "and it might jest as well go the limit. 'T won't bring much, but 'twill help."
Through byways and highways Amarilly sought the region of the three- balled porticoes. The shop of one Max Solstein attracted her, and she entered his open door. Max, rat-eyed and frog-mouthed, came forward propitiatingly.
"What'll you gimme on this?" came with directness from the small importuner.
He took the garment, shook it, and held it up for falcon-gaze inspection.
"Not worth much. A quarter of a dollar."
Amarilly snatched it from his grasp and fled. Not because of his low- figured offer; she had fully expected to have to "beat him up." But when she had entered, a youth who had all the recognized earmarks of a reporter was lounging in the doorway. At sight of the uplifted garment he had come eagerly forward, scenting a story. She knew his kind from snatches of conversation she had heard between the leading lady and Lord Algernon. In the lore of the stage at Barlow's, reporters were "hovering vultures" who always dropped down when least wanted, and they had a way of dragging to light the innermost thoughts of their victims.
"You read your secrets," Lord Algernon had dramatically declared, "in blazoned headlines."
Hitherto Amarilly had effectually silenced her instinctive rebellion against the profaning of St. John's surplice, but she had reached the limit. No Max Solstein, no threatening landlord, no ruthless reporter should thrust the sacred surplice into the publicity of print.
She darted from the shop, the reporter right at her heels, but the chasing of his covey to corner was not easily accomplished. He was a newly fledged reporter, and Amarilly had all the instinct of the lowly for localities. She turned and doubled and dodged successfully. By a course circuitous she returned to Hebrew haunts, this time to seek, one Abram Canter, a little wizened, gnome-like Jew. Assuring herself that there was no other than the proprietor within, Amarilly entered and handed over the surplice for appraisal.
Once more the garment was held aloft. At that psychological moment an elderly man of buxom build, benevolent in mien, and with smooth, long hair that had an upward rolling tendency at the ends, looked in the shop as he was passing. He halted, hesitated, and then entered. Of him, however, Amarilly felt no apprehension.
"Looks like Quaker Oats, or mebby it's the Jack of Spades," she thought after a searching survey.
"My child, is that yours?" he asked of Amarilly, indicating the garment by a protesting forefinger.
"Sure thing!" she acknowledged frankly.
"Where did you get it?"
If he had been a young man, Amarilly would have cheerfully reminded him that it was none of his business, but, a respecter of age, she loftily informed him that it had been "give to her."
"By whom?" he persisted.
Perceiving her reluctance to answer, he added gently:
"I am a bishop of the Episcopal Church, and I cannot endure to see a surplice in such a place as this."
A bishop! This was worse than a reporter even. St. John would surely hear of it! But she felt that an explanation was due the calling of her interlocutor.
She lifted righteous eyes to his.
"My mother works for one of the churches, and the minister, he give us this to cut up into clo'es fer the chillern, but we didn't cut it up. I'm agoin' to leave it here till the rent's paid, and we git the money to take it outen hock."
The bishop's eyes softened, and lost their look of shocked dignity.
"I will advance you the money," he offered. "I would much prefer to do so than to have it left here. How much money do you need to pay your rent?"
"We need five dollars," said Amarilly, "to pay the balance of it. But I wouldn't take it from you. I ain't no beggar. I don't believe, nuther," she continued, half to herself, "that Mr. St. John would like it."
"Who is Mr. St. John?" he asked curiously. "I know of no such rector in this diocese. My child, you have an honest face. Since you won't accept a gift of money, I will lend, you the amount. I want you to tell me all about yourself and this surplice."
"Well, mebby he'd want me to," reflected Amarilly.
"Gimme back that surplus," she said to the Jew, who seemed loath to relinquish his booty.
As she walked up the street with the bishop, she frankly related the family history and the part Mr. Meredith and the surplice had played therein.
The bishop had generous instincts, and a desire to reach the needy directly instead of through the medium of institutions, but he had never known just how to approach them. His presence in this unknown part of the city had been unpremeditated, but he welcomed the chance that had led his steps hither to perform an errand of mercy. He handed Amarilly five dollars, and wrote down her address. He was most reluctant to receive the surplice as security, but Amarilly's firm insistence was not to be overcome. She returned home, rejoicing in the knowledge that she had the price of their happy home in her pocket. The bishop had given her his card, which she laid in a china saucer with other bits of pasteboard she had collected from Derry Phillips, Mr. Vedder, and Pete Noyes. The saucer adorned a small stand in the dining-room part of the house.
"It's the way Mrs. Hubbleston kep' her keerds," Amarilly explained to the family.
Meantime the bishop was walking in an opposite direction toward his home, wondering if he should find he was mistaken in his estimate of human nature; and a query arose in his mind as to what he should do with the surplice if it were left on his hands.
Bud sat in the park,—Clothes-line Park, Amarilly had dubbed it—one Monday afternoon, singing a song of gladness. The park was confined by a clothes-line stretched between three tottering poles and the one solitary poplar tree of the Jenkins estate. The line was hung with white linen garments, and smaller articles adorned the grass plot within the park.
This to Bud was the most beautiful spot in the world. He looked up into the sapphire blue of the sky flecked with soft patches of white, then down upon the waving grass latticed by sun and shade; he listened to the soothing rustle of the poplar leaves, the soft flapping of linen in the breeze, the birds in the tree tops, and felt his heart and throat bursting with all the harmony and melody about him. Not always was Bud's refrain one of joy. There were songs of sorrow on the damp days when the washings must be dried within the house, and he could not venture forth because he still was regarded as the delicate one of the family. There were days, too, when the number of garments was not adequate to complete the boundary to the park, and that meant less to eat and worry about the rent and a harassed look in his mother's anxious eyes.
But there was no sob in Bud's song this afternoon. The clothes had been hung out unusually early, and were nearly dry, so his mother had brought out her little lean-back rocker and sat beside him for a few moments to listen to his carol and to hark back to the days when his lusty-voiced father had sung to her in the shadows of a vine clad porch.
It was not upon Amarilly, the sharer of her burdens, nor upon the baby that Mrs. Jenkins lavished her tenderness. Bud crept closest because he had been the one most dependent upon her care.
When the little singer ceased, the mother arose and unpinned the garments, carrying them in armfuls to the huge basket in the middle of the park. Bud watched her thin, fatigued hands as they performed their accustomed task, and a sudden inspiration came to him. His future field of labor had troubled him. Now his way seemed clear. He stepped nimbly to the grass plot and gathered up the pieces spread thereon.
"Ma," he said, as they met at the basket, "I've jest thought what I kin do, when I grow up, to support you."
"What is it, Bud?" she asked interestedly.
"The teacher said we must plan to do what we knew the most about. I know more about washin' than anything else."
"You'd orter," she replied with a sigh.
"I kin run a laundry," he declared.
"That would be a fine business."
Happy in the hope of this new horoscope, Bud resumed his seat in the amphitheatre, and in a voice of clarion clearness ecstatically rendered one of the hymns he had learned at St. Mark's. Ever since he had become a member of the choir, Clothes-line Park had rung with echoes of the Jubilate and Venite instead of the popular old-time school airs. The wringer was turned to the tune of a Te Deum, the clothes were rubbed to the rhythm of a Benedictus, and the floor mopped to the melody of a Magnificat.
On the happy, by-gone Thursdays, cloistered by snow-white surplices, with the little chorister enthroned in the midst, Clothes-line Park had seemed a veritable White Chapel.
Bud was snatched from his carols by the arrival of Amarilly, who was far too practical to hearken to hymns when there was work to be performed.
"I got the money Miss Ormsby's owed us so long," she announced in a tone of satisfaction, "and that jest makes up the money to git back the surplus. I'll give you carfare one way, Bud, and you must go to the bishop's and git it. I'm too beat to go. I've walked most five miles sence dinner."
Bud was scoured and brushed, the pocket of his blouse tagged with a five-dollar bill carefully secured by a safety pin, and he started on his way for the address Amarilly had given him. He stopped at the corner drug store to spend his car-fare for an ice-cream soda.
When the lad's quest was repeated to the bishop by his housekeeper, he instructed her to send Bud up to the library, being kindly-disposed towards all boy-kind. While he was questioning his young visitor, the organ of Grace Church, which was next to the bishop's house, pealed forth, and a man's voice began to chant a selection from an oratorio Bud had learned at St. Mark's. A high, childish soprano voice was essaying to carry the sustained note an octave above the man's voice; once it sharped.
"Oh!" shuddered Bud in dismay. "He can't keep the tune."
"He isn't our regular soloist," explained the bishop apologetically. "He is ill, and this boy is trying to learn the part for an organ recital to be given next week."
Again the choirmaster's voice, patient and wearied, began the refrain. Instinctively Bud's little chest swelled, and involuntarily his clear, high treble took the note and sustained it without break through the measures, and then triumphantly broke into the solo. The bishop's eyes shone.
"Come," he said, rising and going towards the door, "come with me."
Wonderingly and obediently, Bud followed him into the church and up to the organ where the choirmaster sat.
"This is one of the boys from St. Mark's. Try him on the solo. He just sang it for me."
"I thought I heard it sung just now, but I feared it was only an echo of my dreams. Let me hear you again, my lad."
Easily and confidently Bud attacked the high C in alt. At the end of the solo, the long-suffering choirmaster looked as if he were an Orpheus, who had found his Eurydice.
"Who taught you to sing that solo?" he demanded.
"My school teacher. She is studying fer an opery singer, and she helps me with my Sunday singing."
"I thought the style was a little florid for the organist of St. Mark's," said the choirmaster whimsically. "My boy, if you will sing it for us at the recital as well as you did just now, you shall have ten dollars."
The laundry now loomed as a fixed star in Bud's firmament. When he went home and told his mother the good news she moved joyfully among her mops and tubs. The turn of the wringer never seemed so easy, and she frequently paused in the rubbing of a soaped garment to wring the suds from her swollen hands and listen anew to the recital of Bud's call upon the bishop and the choirmaster of Grace Church.
The next day the flood-tide of the Jenkins's fortunes bid fair to flow to fullness. Word came to the little home that Mr. Meredith had returned to the city and desired the laundry work to be resumed. Bud was summoned to choir practice the following Friday, and Miss King sent her chauffeur with a fair-sized washing.
"Everything comes so to onct, it takes your breath away," said Amarilly, quite overcome by this renewal of commercial activity, "and next thing I know,"—there her heart gave a deer-like leap—"Mr. Derry'll be hum, and sendin' fer me. Then we'll all be earnin' excep' Gus."
At the end of the week Amarilly eagerly went to deliver the washings at the rectory and Miss King's, but in both instances she was doomed to disappointment, as her friends were not in.
"I'll go to church and see 'em," she resolved.
This time her raiment was very simple, but more effective than upon the occasion of her previous attendance.
Before Amarilly's artistic temperament was awakened by the atmosphere of the studio, she had been wont to array herself in things convenient without regard to color or style, believing herself to be hopelessly homely and beyond the aid of personal adornment; but since Derry had praised her hair, she had scrupulously cared for it and allowed no conflicting color in proximity thereto. On this occasion she fastened it with the black velvet bows, and arrayed herself in the white dress Mrs. Jimmels had given her.
"I declar, Amarilly," exclaimed her mother, "I believe you're agrowin' purty!"
Amarilly's eyes danced, and she gave her mother a spontaneous and rewarding hug.
She didn't do her own ushering this time, and was consequently seated most inconspicuously near the entrance. Her heart beat rapturously at the sight of John Meredith in the pulpit.
"His vacation didn't freshen him up much," she thought, after a shrewd glance. "He's paler and don't look real peart. Sorter like Bud arter he got up from the fever."
Her attention was diverted from the rector by the vision of Colette coming down the aisle. The change in her appearance was even more startling to the little anxious-eyed girl than in John's case. There were violet shadows under the bright eyes, a subtle, subdued air about her fresh young beauty that had banished the little touch of wilfulness. As soon as she was seated, which was after the service had begun, she became entirely absorbed in her prayer-book.
"Vacation ain't agreed with her, nuther," pondered Amarilly perplexedly.
She turned her gaze again to John, who was sitting back of the choir, while his "understudy" conducted the service. His face was shaded by his hand, but Amarilly's gimlet glance noted that he frequently sent a fleeting, troubled look toward the King pew.
"Thar's something up atwixt 'em," deduced Amarilly, "and they air both too proud to say nuthin' about it to the other."
John's sermon was on the strength that renunciation brings, and the duty of learning resignation. There was a pervasive note of sadness in his deliverance of the theme, and Amarilly felt her joyousness in the return of her friends slipping from her.
She went out of church somewhat depressed, but was cheered by the handclasp of the rector and his earnest assurance that he would see her very soon. While he was saying this, Colette slipped past without vouchsafing so much as a glance in their direction. Hurt through and through, the little girl walked sadly to the pavement with head and eyes downcast.
"Amarilly," dulcetly spoke a well-loved voice.
Her eyes turned quickly. Colette stood at the curb, her hand on the door of the electric.
"I waited to take you home, dear. Why, what's the matter, Amarilly?Tears?"
"I thought you wan't goin' to speak to me," said Amarilly, as she stepped into the brougham and took the seat beside Colette.
"I didn't want to interrupt you and Mr. Meredith, but it's a wonder I knew you. You look so different. You have grown so tall, and what a beautiful dress! Who showed you how to fix your hair so artistically? I never realized you had such beautiful hair, child!"
"I didn't nuther, till he told me."
"Who, Amarilly? Lord Algernon?"
"No!" scoffed Amarilly, suddenly realizing that her former hero had toppled from his pedestal in her thoughts. "'Tain't him. It's a new friend I have made. An artist."
"Oh, Amarilly, you have such distinguished acquaintances! All in the profession, too. Tell me who the artist is."
"Mr. Derry Phillips. I cleaned his rooms, and he took me to lunch. We ate things like we had to your house."
"Derry Phillips, the talented young artist! Why, Amarilly, girls are tumbling over each other trying to get attention from him, and he took you to luncheon! Where?"
"To Carter's, and I'm to serve his breakfast and take care of his rooms, and he showed me how to fix my hair and to say 'can' and 'ate.' He's fired the woman what red his rooms."
"'Merely Mary Ann,'" murmured Colette.
"No," said Amarilly positively. "Her name is Miss O'Leary, and she didn't clean the mopboards."
Colette's gay laughter pealed forth.
"Amarilly, this is the first time, I've laughed this summer, but I must explain something to you. The housekeeper told me that all the children had scarlet fever and were quarantined a long time after we left. I wish I had known it and thought more about you, but—I've had troubles of my own. How did you manage so long with nothing coming in?"
"It was purty hard, but we fetched it," sighed Amarilly, thinking of the struggles, "We're doin' fine now again."
"But, tell me; how did you buy food and things when none of you were working?"
"When your ten dollars was gone, we spent his'n."
"Whose?"
"Mr. Meredith's. He sent us a ten, too."
"Oh!" replied Colette frigidly.
"Then the Boarder give us all he hed. Arterwards come dark days until Mr. Vedder sent us a fiver.—Then thar was an orful day when thar wa'n't a cent and we didn't know whar to turn, and then—It saved us."
"It? What?"
"The surplus. Mr. St. John's surplus. It brung in lots."
"Why, what do you mean, Amarilly?"
"You see 'twas at our house when Iry was fust took sick—same as the waist you gimme was. They couldn't nuther on 'em be sent hum till they was fumygated. Then Mrs. Winders said as how he, Mr. St. John, said as how we was to keep it and cut it up fer the chillern, but we didn't."
"Oh, Amarilly," asked Colette faintly, "do you mean to tell me that the surplice was never delivered to Mr. Meredith?"
"No. Gus didn't take it that night, and in the mornin' when Iry was took it was too late. And then when it got fumygated, Mr. St. John had gone away and he left word we was to keep it."
The transformation in Colette's mobile face during this explanation was rapid and wonderful. With a radiant smile she stopped the brougham and put her arms impulsively about Amarilly.
"Oh, Amarilly, I'm so happy, and I've had such a wretched summer! Now, we will go right to your house and you'll let me see the surplice." Amarilly looked surprised.
"Why, yes, you can see it, of course, though it ain't no diffrent from his other ones."
"Oh yes it is! Far, far different, Amarilly. It has a history."
"Yes, I guess it has," laughed Amarilly, "It's been goin' some these last two months!"
"Why, what do you mean, Amarilly? and I forgot in my excitement to ask how it helped you. But first tell me. You know there is a pocket in it?"
"Yes, Miss King."
"Have you noticed anything in the pocket?"
"Never looked onct. But then if thar was 'twould hev come out in the wash. It's been did up heaps of times. You see, rentin' it out so much—"
"Renting it out!"
Amarilly gave a graphic account of the adventures of the errant garment to date. Meanwhile Colette's countenance underwent kaleidoscopic changes.
"Amarilly," she asked faintly, "have you the addresses of all those people to whom you rented it?"
"Yes; I keep books now, and I put it down in my day ledger the way theBoarder showed me."
"There was something—of mine—in—that pocket. Will you ask your mother to look for it, and hunt the house over for it?"
Amarilly, greatly distressed at the loss, promised faithfully to do so.
As soon as Amarilly had been deposited at her door, Colette tore a leaf from the tablet reposing in its silver case, hastily wrote a few lines, and then ran her brougham at full speed back to St. Mark's. A chorister was just coming out.
"Walter!" she called.
The lad came down to the curb.
"Will you please take this to Mr. Meredith? He is probably in theSunday-school now."
"Sure. Will you wait for an answer, Miss King?".
"No, thank you, Walter."
She rode home and waited anxiously for the personal answer to her note, which came with most unclerical alacrity.
"Colette," he said, his voice tense, "if you knew what your little note meant! Did—"
"Wait until I explain, John. I must tell you about the surplice."
She repeated Amarilly's account of the peregrinations of the robe.
"Well?" he asked bewildered, "I don't see what that has to do with—"
"Everything. There was something of mine—" she turned a deep crimson—"in the pocket of that surplice."
"Yours! Why, how did it get there, Colette? Was it—"
"I am not going to tell you—not until I have it back. Oh, I could die of shame when I think who may have found it. You must get it."
"Colette," he answered gravely, "the surplice must have passed through many hands, but if it is possible to trace this—article, I will do so. Still, how can I make inquiries unless I know what it is?"
"You can ask them, each and all, if they found anything in the pocket," she replied. "And you must tell them you left it there."
"And you won't trust me, Colette? Not after my long unhappy summer. And won't you give me an answer now to the note I wrote you last spring?"
"No; I won't tell you anything! Not until you find that."
"Be reasonable, Colette."
His choice of an adjective was most unfortunate for his cause. It was the word of words that Colette detested; doubtless because she had been so often entreated to cultivate that quality.
"I will not," she answered, "if to tell you is being reasonable. I must have it back. I think no one will really know to whom it belongs, though they may guess. You must, assume the ownership."
"I certainly shall, if it can be found," he assured her.
Seeing the utter futility of changing her mood, he took his departure; perhaps a little wiser if not quite so sad as he had been before he saw her. The next morning he called upon Amarilly, whom he found alone with Iry.
"I am very sorry to learn that you had such a hard summer," he said kindly, "and I regret that I didn't know more about your affairs before I left the city, but I was too absorbed, I fear, in my own troubles."
"How did you hear about us?" she asked curiously.
"From Miss King."
"Oh," said Amarilly happily, imagining that their trouble must have been patched up. Then another thought occurred to her which gave her a little heart palpitation. With intense anxiety depicted on her lineaments she asked tremulously: "Did she tell you about the surplus?"
"Amarilly," and the tone was so reassuring that the little wrinkles of anxiety vanished, "when I gave you the surplice, I gave it to you unconditionally, and I am very glad that you put it to profit. But, you know, as Miss King told you, that there was something of value—of importance—in that pocket; something that must be found. My happiness depends entirely upon its recovery. Now, she tells me that you can give me the names and addresses of all the people through whose hands it passed."
"Sure thing!" she replied with business-like alacrity. "You see the Boarder has been larnin' me bookkeepin', and so I keep all our accounts now in a big book the grocer give me."
She produced a large, ledger-like book and laid it on the table for his inspection. He examined her system of bookkeeping with interest. Under the head of "Cr.," which she explained to him meant "brung in," was "Washins," "Boarder," "Flamingus," "Milt," "Bobby," "Bud." Below each of these subheads were dates and accounts. The page opposite, headed "Dr.," she translated, "means paid out."
She turned a few leaves, and in big letters he read the word "Surplus."
"This bein' a sort of extry account, the Boarder said to run it as a special and keep it seprut. If you'll set down, I'll read offer to you whar it has went."
She began to read laboriously and slowly from the book, adding explanatory notes in glib tones.
"'July 8. Mister Carrul, tenner, 1 doller. Pade.' He's the tenor, you know, to Grace Church. He wanted it to sing in at a sacred concert. His was too short or too long.
"'July 11. Miss Lyte and Miss Bobson. 'Tablos. 1 doller. Pade.' Mr.Carul knows where they live. 'Twaz him as got the job fer me.
"'July 15 to July 19. The Beehive. 3 dollers and 1/2 Pade.' That's a bargain store down in our parts. I went in fer to git Bud a cap and I hearn the clerk askin' the boss about fixin' up a winder show with wax figgers fer a weddin'. I step up to him and ask him if he kep surpluses, and he sez as he didn't. I told him I could rent him one to put on the minister, and he hedn't thought fer to hev it an Episcopal show, but he sed he'd do it fer an ad fer his white goods. He wouldn't stand fer no dollar a day. He beat me down to three-fifty, but he throwed in a cap fer Bud.
"Next come Mrs. Hudgers. I didn't put it down in the ledger, though, cause it didn't bring nuthin' but a pan of doughnuts. Her son Hallie died, and he didn't hev no nice clo'es ter be laid out in, and she was agoin' to hev quite a funyral, so jest afore folks come, she slipped the surplus on ter him over his old clo'es, and then when 'twas over, she took it offen him again. He made a swell lookin' corpse. Bein' a neighbor we didn't go fer to ask her nuthin', but she give us the nut cakes. They give her dyspepsy, anyhow."
The muscles of John Meredith's face grew rigid in his endeavor to maintain a serious expression. He had taken out a notebook at the beginning of the interview to jot down the addresses, but he copied Amarilly's comments as well, for the future entertainment of Colette.
"'July 25 and 26. Mr. Derry Phillips, The Navarre. 2 dollers. Pade.' He paints picters. He painted the surplus onto a man playin' on a orgin."
She hesitated a moment, and then continued: "I'm agoin' to work reg'lur fer him instead of to the theayter. I'm agoin' to git his breakfast and clean his rooms. He'll pay me the same as I got. He's a sort of eddicatin' me too."
"Why, how is that, Amarilly?" asked John in perplexity.
"He larnt me not to say 'et' and 'kin.'"
The rector's eyes twinkled.
"And," pursued Amarilly, after another moment of hesitancy, "he's larnt me how to fix my hair. He says red hair is beautiful! He took me to a restyrant."
John looked troubled at this statement, and felt that his call at the studio would now be for a double purpose.
"'July 27,'" resumed Amarilly. "'The Boarder. 25 cents. Pade.'"
"Why, what possible use could he have for a surplice?"
"He's akeepin' company with a young gal—Lily Rose—and she wanted his likeness tooken sorter fancy-like, so he wuz took in the surplus, and he got himself framed in a gilt and shell frame, and she hez it ahangin' over her bed. I didn't want no pay from him, cause he give us his money when yours and Miss King's was gone, but he says as how it might bring him luck in gittin' her, so I took a quarter of a dollar.
"'July 29. Mister Vergil Washington. Reckter Colered Church. 1 doller.Pade.' Some one stole his'n off en the clo'es-line, and he only hed one.
"'July 31. Widder Hubbleston, 56 Wilkins St. 1 Doller. Pade.' She got merried by an Episcopal minister, and he furgot his surplus, and that was all she hed hired him fer, so she rented our'n fer him, and Mr. Jimmels, her new husband, took it outen the minister's pay. Somethin' allers goes wrong to her weddin's."
"Does she have them often?" interrupted John gravely.
"Quite frequent." "'Aug. 3, Mister Vedder, Ticket Seller to theTheayter. 1 doller. Pade.' He wore it to a sheet and piller case party.I didn't want fer to take nuthin' from him, cause he give us money whenwe hed the fever, but he wouldn't hev it that way.
"'Aug. 5. Pete Noyes. Gum.' He's the boy what sells gum to the theayter. He was agoin' to a party whar you hev to be the name of a book. He wore the surplus so his name was the Little Minister. We took it out in gum— spruce and pepsin. Iry swallered his'n every time, and Miss Hudgers was afeard he'd be stuck together inside.
"'Aug. 9-23. Vawdevil Theayter. 5 dollers. Pade.' They put it on fer a sketch.
"'Aug. 25. Mister Cotter. 25 cents. Pade.' He's a brakeman friend of theBoarder. He wore it to a maskyrade.
"'Aug. 27. Poleece. 35 cents. Pade.'"
"Police!" ejaculated John faintly.
"Some one swiped it offen our clo'es-line, and when the police ketched the thief, we was subpenyed, or ma was. She got thirty-five cents, and all on us 'cept Iry went to hear her."
"'Aug, 29. Bishop Thurber. 5 dollers. Pade.'"
"Bishop Thurber!" the name was repeated with the force of an expletive.
"Seems to mind that more'n he did the police," thought Amarilly.
"It's quite a story," she explained, "and though it was orful at the beginnin' it come out all right, jest as the plays all do. I jest thought, I shouldn't hev put that down in the account, cause we give back the five, so we didn't make nuthin' in a way. We wuz dead broke. I suppose," she ruminated, "you don't know jest how orful it is to be that."
"I don't, Amarilly, from my own experience," replied John sympathetically, "but I can imagine how terrible it must be, and I am very sorry—"
"Well, as long as it come out all right, it don't make no difference. We'd got to pay our rent or else git put out, and I was up a stump till the Boarder said to tackle a pawnshop. I didn't hev nuthin' but the surplus to pawn, and I hated to pawn it on your account."
"I don't care, my child," was the fervent assurance, "where you took it as long as it helped you in your troubles."
"Well, I was in a pawnshop, and the man was holdin' it up, and the bishop went by, and when he seen what it was he come in, and asked me all about it, and I told him. He took it worse than you do that I would pawn it, and to save it he lent me five dollers. Course I made him take the surplus till I hed the money to git it outen hock, and when we was able to pay fer it, Bud went arter it. Thar was a boy practicin' at the church next door, and he warn't singin' it right, and Bud he couldn't keep still noway, so he up and sings the soler, and when the man at the orgin hearn him, he fired the boy what was tryin' to sing, and hired Bud in his place. He's agoin' to sing to a recital at Grace Church day arter to-morrer, and git ten dollers. And we air goin' to make Bud bank all he gits cause he ain't so strong as the rest of us. He may need it some time. That's all the places the surplus went to. I guess I'll go outen the costumin' business now, 'cause I'll be startin' in with Mr. Derry soon."
There was one little ominous cloud in the serene sky of Mrs. Jenkins's happiness. She had nothing suitable for the occasion of the organ recital in the way of wearing apparel.
"I feel as if gloves was due you, Bud," she lamented, "but I kin't afford 'em. I guess I kin put my hands under my mantilly, though, and folks won't know."
"She'd orter hev 'em, and she'd orter hev a new hat, too," reflected Bud, and his song became a requiem. He manfully resolved to sacrifice his future to present needs and curtail the laundry fund. After some meditation he called upon the bishop, and asked if he might have an advance of half the amount he would receive for his solo.
The bishop readily assented, but sought the reason for the request.
"My mother is comin' to the recital, but she ain't got no fixin's. I'm goin' to buy her a hat."
"I am glad you think of your mother, my lad, but it would be well to let some older person select it for you. My housekeeper—"
Bud's refusal was emphatic. He knew the kind of hat his mother wanted, and he had noted her quickly suppressed look of disappointment at the sombre hat donated by Mrs. Hudgers on the day of the police-court attendance.
Upon receiving the five dollars he went directly to the Fashion Emporium, where the windows were filled with a heterogeneous assortment of gayly trimmed hats, marked enticingly with former and present prices.
"I want a hat kivered with flowers," he announced.
"Who for?" asked the young saleswoman.
"For my mother."
"How would you like a nice flower toque like this?" displaying a headgear of modest forget-me-nots.
"That's all faded. Ain't you got any red flowers? If you haven't, I know a store where they keep 'em."
The girl instantly sacrificed her ideas of what was fitting to the certainty of a sale, and quickly produced a hat of green foliage from which rose long-stemmed, nodding red poppies, "a creation marked down to three-ninety-eight," she informed him.
"That's the kind! I'll take it and a pair of white gloves, too, if you've got some big ones fer a dollar."
Bud hastened home with his purchases. His mother was quite overcome by the sight of such finery.
"I never thought to be dressed up again," she exclaimed on the eventful night, "No one has bought me nuthin' to wear sence your pa died. I feel like I was some one outen a book."
The entire family, save Iry, who was put to bed at a neighbor's, went to the recital. The Boarder took Lily Rose, who was quite flustered at her first appearance with the family.
John and Colette occupied a pew directly opposite the family. Mr. Vedder and Pete were also in attendance.
When the bishop came from the vestry and walked down the aisle to his pew, his eyes fell upon the worn, seamed face of Bud's mother, the weary patient eyes in such odd contrast to the youthful turban with its smartly dancing flowers. Something stirred in his well-regulated heart, and he carefully wiped his glasses.
At the signal from the choirmaster for the solo of the oratorio, Bud arose. An atom of a boy he looked in the vast, vaulted chancel, and for the first time he knew fear at the thought of singing. It was a terrible thing, after all, to face this sea of staring, dancing people. As lightning reaches to steel, the gay poppies nodding so nervously above his mother's white, anxious face sought the courage place within, and urged him on. He felt himself back in Clothes-line Park, alone with his mother and the blue sky.
The little figure filled itself with a long, deep breath. The high, clear note merged into one with the notes of the chorus. It touched the tones of the accompaniment in harmony true, and swelled into grand, triumphant music.
"He looks like he did arter the fever," thought Amarilly anxiously.
When he came down the aisle with the choir, the ethereal look had left his face, and he was again a happy little boy. He gave his mother a gay nod, and bestowed a wink upon the Boarder. He waited outside and the family wended their way homeward.
There had not been time to bring in the clothes before leaving, but a willing neighborhood had guarded the premises for them, so Clothes-line Park was shrouded in a whiteness that looked ghostly in the moonlight.
They made quite an affair of the evening in honor of Bud's song, and their introduction to Lily Rose. There were fried sausages, coffee, sandwiches, and pork cake.
"The organist told me," announced Bud at supper, "that he was agoin' to train my voice, and I could be soloist at Grace Church and git five dollars a Sunday, and after a while I could git ten."
"You'll be a millynaire," prophesied Bobby in awed tones.
"Guess we'll be on Easy Street now," shouted Cory.
"We won't be nuthin' of the kind," snapped Amarilly. "It's agoin' to all be banked fer Bud."
"I guess," said Bud, in his quiet, little old-man way, "I'm the one to hev the say. I'm agoin' to give ma two dollars a week and bank the rest."
Meanwhile John was having an uncomfortable time as he walked home with Colette. He had started on the trail of the surplice the day before. The "tenner" and the young ladies who had given the tableaux had been interviewed, but in neither case had the mysterious pocket been discovered. To-day he had visited the Beehive, but no one in the store had paid any attention to the pocket, or knew of its existence. Colette remained obdurate to his pleadings. She assumed that he was entirely to blame for the loss, and seemed to take a gleeful delight in showing him how perverse and wilful she could be. To-night he found himself less able than usual to cope with her caprices, so he began to talk of impersonal matters and dwelt upon the beauties of Bud's voice, and the astonishing way in which it had developed.
She admitted that Bud's voice was indeed wonderful, but maintained that Mrs. Jenkins's poppy hat and white gloves had been far surpassing in the way of surprises.
"Did you ever, John, see anything more shoutingly funny?"
"It wasn't funny, Colette," he said wistfully, and he proceeded to relate the history of the hat as he had heard it from the bishop that day.
[Illustration: To-night he found himself less able than usual to cope with her caprices]
And though in the depths of her heart Colette was touched by the pathos of the purchase, she must needs tread again the feminine labyrinth instead of following the more natural and open path.
"Who was the young girl with the Boarder?" John next vouchsafed.
"Why, Lily Rose, of course. The Lily for whom he 'sot for his likeness in the surplus.' That awful surplice," she burst forth in irritation at the mere mention of the unfortunate word. "Some of these people must have it. John, you don't half try to find it."
"I am following out the list in order," he assured her. "I shall go to see Mrs. Hudgers to-morrow."
"And the next one to her," reminded Colette, "is Derry Phillips, Amarilly's new benefactor. She told me to-day that she had a note from him, asking her to begin work at the studio in a few days."
"I have a double duty in my call there," said John didactically. "If he is like some of the young artists I know, his studio will hardly be a proper place for Amarilly."
"As it happens," returned Colette coldly, "Derry Phillips, for all his nonsense, is reported to be a true gentleman; but it would make no difference with Amarilly if he were not. Her inherent goodness would counteract the evil of any atmosphere. She can take care of his rooms until she is a little older. Then she can become a model."
"Colette!" he exclaimed protestingly.
"Why not?" she returned. "Why shouldn't Amarilly be a model, or go on the stage? Neither place would be below her station in life."
John sought refuge in utter silence which admonished and exasperatedColette far more than any reproof would have done.
"You might as well go, if you have nothing to say," she remarked stiffly, as he lingered in the portico, evidently expecting an invitation to enter.
"I havetoomuch to say, Colette."
Her sidelong glance noted his dejection, and her flagging spirits rose again.
"Too much, indeed, when you are so critical of what I say!"
"Colette, hear me!"
"No, I won't listen—never when you preach!"
"I don't mean to preach, Colette, but don't you think—"
"Good night, John," she said, smiling.
"Good night!" he echoed dolefully, but making no move to leave."Colette, will you never tell me?"
"Yes," she replied unexpectedly, with a dancing light in her beautiful eyes.
"When?"
"When you restore to me what was in the pocket."
Jason never sought the Golden Fleece with more unwearying perseverance than John displayed in the pursuit of the lost article which Colette refused to describe. His calls of inquiry didn't mean merely putting the question politely and taking his departure after receiving an answer. It meant, in the case of Mrs. Hudgers, a martyr's test of patience in listening to the devious and manifold routes taken by her rheumatic pains; a rehearsal of the late lamented Hallie's idiosyncracies; the details of his last illness; his death; and his wearing of the surplice at the obsequies.
Throughout her harangue he preached patience unto himself and remembered that she was an old woman, desolate in her "lone lornness," so he counselled not, neither did he pray, but comforted her with the gentleness of voice and speech that won him a fond place in her memory for all time.
"No," she assured him decisively, as in departing he reminded her of his original question, "I didn't go fer to look in no pockit. I didn't suppose them things had pockits."
Then the scene shifted to Derry Phillips's studio, and this visit was fraught with more difficulties, for there was the case of Amarilly which must be approached delicately and with subtlety.
After stating his errand concisely and receiving assurance that the pocket had not been examined, but that the model should be interviewed by him, John still lingered.
"It's very kind in you to give employment to Amarilly, Mr. Phillips."
Derry shook his head.
"I am the one to be congratulated, Mr. Meredith. I really feel apologetic to Amarilly for accepting her services. They are so conscientiously and faithfully rendered that I feel she should be given a higher scope of work than she can find here. She is an honest, amusing little soul, and if by giving her employment I can encourage her desire to be industrious and earn something, I am very glad of the opportunity to do so."
This was a long and serious observation for the gay-hearted Derry to make, but he shrewdly fathomed the pastoral duty underlying the seemingly casual remark.
John's keen perception recognized the sincerity in the ring of the pleasant young voice, and he was quite won by the boyish directness. An instinctive confidence moved him to extend the right hand of trust and fellowship.
"You have been instructive as well as benevolent," he remarked smilingly. "Two of Amarilly's errors of speech have been eradicated."
The young Artist flushed in slight confusion, and then with a half- embarrassed laugh, he replied lightly: "Amarilly gave full measure of correction in return."
Responding to the nameless something in John that so insistently and irresistibly invited confidence, he related the little incident of the luncheon and her request in regard to temperate orders in the future.
"And I don't mean to say," he replied with winning frankness, "that it was merely the request of a little scrub-girl that has kept me temperate through two months of vacation and temptation, but the guileless suggestion was the spark that fired the flame of a dormant desire to change—certain conditions."
John again extended his hand, this time in a remorseful spirit of apology.
Derry partially understood.
"Amarilly has ardently interested friends," he observed whimsically. "There was one Vedder, a solemn young German, here to-day in my little maid's interest."
John's call upon the sable-hued preacher, Brother Washington, also demanded strategic approach. The question of pockets must be delicately handled lest any reflection be cast upon the integrity of the race, and their known penchant for pockets.
Brother Washington's sympathies were at once enlisted, however, when he scented a romance, for John became more confidential in this than in any of his prior visitations, in his desire to propitiate. But his search was fruitless here as elsewhere, and he went away convinced that Brother Washington had not tampered with the pocket.
He went on to the house of the Reverend James Woodville, who had performed the marriage ceremony at the nuptials of Mrs. Jimmels, née Hubbleston. In this instance also no pocket had been discovered in the garment, so John wended his discouraged way to the office of the Barlow Theatre.
Mr. Vedder was likewise surprised to learn that surplices possessed pockets.
The young rector's face brightened at the next name on his list—PeteNoyes. Of course a boy and a pocket would not long remain unacquainted.Again he was doomed to disappointment. Pete's dismay when he learnedthat there had been an overlooked pocket was convincingly genuine.
"You see," he explained, "I wore it over my pants, of course, and I had the pockets in them, so I didn't look for no more."
Pete escorted the rector to the "Vawdyville," and by good fortune the clerical impersonator in the sketch was still on the board, though in a different act. He instantly and decidedly disclaimed all knowledge of a pocket.
"It's like that game," grinned Pete. "Button, button, who's got the button?"
"Yes," agreed John, with a sigh, "only in this case I fear I shall continue to be 'it.'"
The brakeman, when he came in from his run, was located and he joined in the blockade that was conspiring against John's future happiness.
The clothes-line thief was very sensitive on the subject, and felt greatly aggrieved that he should be accused of picking his own pocket, for he protested that he had "found" the garment. The fancied insinuation indeed was so strongly resented that John wondered if it might not be a proverbial case of "hit birds flutter."
Neither police nor court of justice had examined the pocket; nor had they been aware of the existence of one. The bishop could throw no light on the missing article, and this call ended the successless tour of investigation.
"It was truly a profitable investment for the Jenkins family," thoughtJohn, "but a sorry one for me."
Having now wended his weary and unavailing way into all the places listed, John made his final report to Colette who remained adamant in her resolve.
"Of course some of those people did find it," she maintained. "It stands to reason they must have done so, and it is up to you now to find out which one of them is the guilty person."
"How can I find that out, Colette?"
"How? Anyhow!" she replied, her mien betraying great triumph at her powers of logic.
"It must be found!" she asserted with a distinct air of finality. "And until it is found—"
She stopped abruptly.
"Was it of value? No, I am not trying to find out what it was since you don't wish me to know, but if I knew its value, it might help me to decide who would be the most likely to have a motive for taking it. But my belief is that the article slipped from the pocket and is lost."
"It must be found then" she persisted obstinately.
John went home to ponder over his hopeless task. It remained forAmarilly with her optimistic spirit to cheer him.
"It'll turn up some place whar you never looked fer it and when you ain't thinkin' nuthin' about it," she asserted believingly. "Lost things allers do."
Despite her philosophy she was greatly distressed over the disappearance of the mysterious article whose loss was keeping John so unhappy. She ransacked the house from the cellar to the Boarder's room, but found no trace of it.
"I wonder what it was," she mused.
"Mebby Miss King dreamt she put something in there, and when could she have done it anyhow? Mebby she give him a present, and he slipped it in there and fergot to take it out when he sent it to us. But then it would have come out in the wash. She don't seem to feel so bad as he does— jest sorter stubborn about it."
The members of the household were put through the third degree, but each declared his innocence in the matter.
"'Twas most likely Iry took it," said Cory, who found the baby a convenient loophole for any accusations, "and most likely he hez swallered it."
Gus persisted in his oft-repeated statement, that there was nothing in the pocket when it was hung up during quarantine. This assurance was conveyed to Colette by John, who hoped she might find solace in the thought that none of the renters could have had it, if this were true, but to his chagrin she found in his information an implied reflection on her veracity.
"Colette," he said whimsically, "only three persons connected with this affair have taken my remarks as personal, you, Brother Washington, and the thief."
With this remark John, despairing of his ability to fathom the mystery of the article or to follow the caprices of Colette, dropped the matter completely.
At half past eight on the morning indicated, Amarilly's ring at the door of the studio was answered by Derry, whose face was covered with lather.
"Hello, Amarilly!" he exclaimed heartily, extending his hand in genial comradeship. "I am glad to see you again. Been pretty well through the summer? Well, come on into the butler's pantry, and see what you can do in a coffee way while I finish shaving."
Amarilly had been receiving instruction in domestic science, including table service, at the Guild school. Colette, interested in the studio work, had provided some minute muslin aprons and a little patch of linen for the head covering of the young waitress, advising her that she must wear them while serving breakfast. So when Derry emerged from his dressing-room, a trimly equipped little maid stood proudly and anxiously awaiting him.
"Why, bless your heart, Amarilly! I feel really domesticated. You look as natty as a new penny, and the little white cap is great on your hair. I see you have remembered how to fix it."
"Thank you, Mr. Derry, but please sit down while your coffee is hot."
"'Deed I will, and if it tastes as good as it smells, I shall raise your remuneration."
He pronounced the coffee delicious, the grapefruit fixed to his liking, the toast crisp, and the eggs boiled just to the right consistency.
"And have you had breakfast, Amarilly?"
"Yes, Mr. Derry, at half past five."
"Jiminy! you should be ready for another. Now talk to me while I eat. Tell me about your reverend friend who was so daffy on the subject of pockets. Has he located any yet?"
Amarilly looked troubled.
"Miss King said I wa'n't to talk to you while I was serving."
"Tell Miss King with Mr. Phillips' compliments that artists are not conventional, and that you and I are not in the relation to each other of master and maid. We are good friends, and quiteen famille. You are such a fine cook, I think I shall have you serve me luncheon at one o'clock. Can you?" "Oh, yes; I should love to, Mr. Derry."
"I'll stock the larder, then. No; I can't be bothered, and I'd feel too much like a family man if I went about marketing. I'll give youcarte blancheto order what you will."
"What's that, Mr. Derry?"
"Good! We mustn't neglect your education. I am glad you asked me. You might have always supposed it a breakfast-food."
He proceeded to explain elaborately what the words meant, and then asked her if she had remembered her previous lesson.
"Yes; ain't you—goin'—"
"Stop right there. Your next word to be eliminated is 'ain't.' You must say 'aren't' or 'isn't.' And you must remember to put 'g' on the end of every word ending in 'ing.' Don't let me hear you say 'goin', again, I'll teach you one new word every day now. You see the measure of a maid is her pure English."
Amarilly looked distressed.
"What's the matter, Amarilly? Don't you want to learn to speak properly?"
"Yes, I do, Mr. Derry; but Miss King—she don't want me to speak diff'rent. She likes to hear me talk ignorant, and she said she was afeard you'd make me brom—"
"Brom?" he repeated.
"There was some more to it, but I fergit."
"Bromidic," he said triumphantly, after an instant's pondering. "You can never under any circumstances be that, and I shall develop your imagination and artistic temperament at the same time. Miss King is selfish to wish to keep you from cultivating yourself for the purpose of furnishing her entertainment. By the way, I am to meet her to-night at a dinner, and I think we shall have a mutual subject for conversation. I must get to work, now. Clear away the dishes. And finish the rest of this toast and coffee. It would be wicked to waste it."
Amarilly substituted a work apron for the little white covering, and was soon engaged in "redding."
At eleven o'clock the place was in perfect order, and she went into the studio where Deny was at work.
"Shall I go get the things fer lunch?"
"Luncheon, if you please, Amarilly. I like that word better. It seems to mean daintier things. Here's a five-dollar bill. Get what you consider proper for a simple little home luncheon, you know. Nothing elaborate."
Amarilly, feeling but not betraying her utter inability to construct the menu for a "simple little home luncheon," walked despondently down the street.
"The Boarder," she reflected, "takes bread and meat and hard biled eggs when they ain't—aren't too high, and pie when we hev it."
Some vague instinct of the fitness of things warned her that this would not be a suitable repast for Derry. Then a light shone through her darkness.
"I'll telephone Miss Vail," she decided.
So she called up her teacher at the Guild, and explained the situation. She received full instructions, made her purchases, and went back to the studio.
At one o'clock she again garbed herself in cap and apron and called Derry to a luncheon which consisted of bouillon, chops, French peas, rolls, a salad, and black tea served with lemon.
"Amarilly," he announced solemnly, "you are surely the reincarnation of a chef. You are immediately promoted from housemaid to housekeeper with full charge over my cuisine, and your wages doubled."
"And that's going some for one day!" Amarilly gleefully announced to the family circle that night.
Her teacher, greatly interested and gratified at her pupil's ability to put her instruction to practical use and profit, made out on each Monday a menu for the entire week. She also gave her special coaching in setting table and serving, so Derry's domestic life became a thing of pride to himself and his coterie of artists. He gave little luncheons and studio teas in his apartments, Amarilly achieving great success in her double role of cook and waitress.
Her work was not only profitable financially, but it developed new tastes and tendencies. Every day there was the new word eagerly grasped and faithfully remembered. "Fer," "set," "spile," "orter," and the like were gradually entirely eliminated from her vocabulary. Unconsciously she acquired "atmosphere" from her environment. In her spare moments Amarilly read aloud to Derry, while he painted, he choosing the book at random from his library.
"I want to use you for a model this afternoon," he remarked one day as she was about to depart. "Braid your hair just as tight as you can, the way you had it the first day you came. Put on your high-necked, long- sleeved apron, and get it wet and soapy as it was that first day, and then come back to the studio with your scrubbing brush and pail."
Amarilly did as she was bidden with a reluctance which the artist, absorbed in his preparations for work, did not notice.
"Yes; that's fine," he said, glancing up as she came to him. "Now get down here on your knees by the—what kind of boards did you call them, Amarilly? Mopboards? Yes, that was it. Now try and put your whole mind on the memory of the horror you felt at the accumulation of dirt on that first day, and begin to scrub. Turn your head slightly toward me, tilted just a little—so—There, that's fine! Keep that position just as long and just as well as you possibly can."
Derry began to paint, mechanically at first, and then as he warmed to his subject and became interested in his conception, with rapidity and absorption.
"There!" he finally exclaimed, "you can rest now! This may be my chef- d'oeuvre, after all, Amarilly. Won't you be proud to be well hung in the Academy and have a group constantly before your picture. Why, what's the matter, child," springing to her side, "tears? I forgot it was your first experience in posing. Why didn't you tell me you were tired?"
"I wan't tired," she half sobbed.
"Well, what is it? Tell me."
"I'm afeerd you'll laugh at me."
"Not on your life! And your word for to-day, Amarilly, is afraid.Remember. Neverafeerd."
"I'll remember," promised Amarilly meekly, as she wiped her dewy eyes.
"Now tell me directly, what is the matter."
"It'll be such a humbly picture with my hair that way. I'd ought to look my best. I'd rather you'd paint me waiting on your table."
"But a waitress is such a trite subject. It would be what your friend, I mean, our friend, Miss King, calls bromidic. An artist, a real artist, with a soul, Amarilly, doesn't look for pretty subjects. It's the truth that he seeks. To paint things as they are is what he aims to do. A little scrub-girl appeals to the artistic temperament more than a little waitress, don't you think? But only you, Amarilly, could look the part of the Little Scrub-Girl as you did. And it would be incongruous— remember the word, please, Amarilly, in-con-gru-ous—to paint her with stylishly dressed hair. You posed so easily, so perfectly, and your expression was so precisely the one I wanted, and your patience in keeping the pose was so wonderful, that I thought you had really caught the spirit of the thing, and were anxious to help me achieve my really great picture."
"I have—I will pose for you as long as you wish," she cried penitently, "and I will braid my hair on wire, and then it will stand out better."
"Good! You are a dear, amenable little girl. To-morrow afternoon we will resume. Here, let me loosen your braids. Goodness, what thick strands!"
She stood by the open window, and the trembling, marginal lights of a setting sun sent gleams and glints of gold through her loosened hair which fell like a flaming veil about her.
"Amarilly," exclaimed Derry rapturously, "I never saw anything quite so beautiful. Some day I'll paint you, not as a scrub-girl nor as a waitress, but as Sunset. You shall stand at this window with your hair as it is now, and you'll outshine the glory of descending Sol himself. I will get a filmy, white dress for you to pose in and present it to you afterward. And as you half turn your head toward the window, you must have a dreamy, reflective expression! You must think of something sad, something that might have been a tragedy but for some mitigating—but there, you don't know what I am talking about!"