Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley. Belle Kanaris Maniates
this week."
"That will make Amarilly so happy," she said, brightening. "I am going there to-morrow to take them some work, and I will tell Mrs. Jenkins to send Flamingus—his is the only name of the brood that my memory retains—for the church laundry."
"He may call at the rectory," replied John, "and get the house laundry as well."
"That will be good news for them. I shall enjoy watching Amarilly's face when she hears it."
"And now, Colette, will you do something for me?"
"Maybe. What is it?" she asked guardedly.
"Will you abandon the idea of going on the stage, or studying for that purpose?"
"Perforce. Father won't consent."
A look of relief drove the trouble from the dark eyes fixed on hers.
"I'll be twenty-one in a year, however," she added carelessly.
John was wise enough to perceive the wilfulness that prompted this reply, and he deftly changed the subject of conversation.
"About this little girl, Amarilly. We must find her something in the way of employment. The atmosphere of a theatre isn't the proper one for a child of that age. Do you think so?"
"Theoretically, no; but Amarilly is not impressionable to atmosphere altogether. She seems a hard-working, staunch little soul, and all that relieves the sordidness of her life and lightens the dreariness of her work is the 'theayter,' as she calls it. So don't destroy her illusions, John. You'll do her more harm than good."
"Not if I give her something real in the place of what you rightly term her illusions."
"You can't. Sunday-school would not satisfy a broad-minded little proletarian like Amarilly, so don't preach to her."
He winced perceptibly.
"Do I preach to you, Colette? Is that how you regard me—as a prosy preacher who—"
"No, John. Just as a disturber of dreams—that is all."
"A disturber of dreams?" he repeated wistfully. "It is you, Colette, who are a disturber of dreams. If you would only let my dreams become realities!"
"Then, to be paradoxical, your realities might change back to dreams, or even nightmares. Returning to soapsuds and Amarilly Jenkins, will you go there with me to-morrow and make arrangements with Mrs. Jenkins for the laundry work?"
"Indeed I will, Colette, and—"
"Don't look so serious, John. Until that dreadful evening, the last time you called, you always left your pulpit punctilio behind you when you came here."
"Colette!" he began in protest.
But she perversely refused to fall in with his serious vein. Chattering gayly yet half-defiantly, on her face the while a baffling smile, partly tender, partly amused, and wholly coquettish—the smile that maddened and yet entranced him—she brought the mask of reserve to his face and man. At such times he never succeeded in remembering that she was but little more than a child, heart-free, capricious, and wilful. Despairing of changing her mood to the serious one that he loved yet so seldom evoked, he arose and bade her good-night.
When he was in the hall she softly called him back, meeting him with a half-penitent look in her eyes, which had suddenly become gazelle-like.
"You may preach to me again some time, John. There are moments when I believe I like it, because no other man dares to do it" "Dares?" he queried with a smile.
"Yes; dares. They all fear to offend. And you, John, you fear nothing!"
"Yes, I do," he answered gravely, as he looked down upon her. "There is one thing I fear that makes me tremble, Colette."
But her mood had again changed, and with a mischievous, elusive smile she bade him go. Inert and musing, he wandered at random through the lights and shadows of the city streets, with a wistful look in his eyes and just the shadow of a pang in his heart.
"She is very young," he said condoningly, answering an accusing thought. "She has been a little spoiled, naturally. She has seen life only from the side that amuses and entertains. Some day, when she realizes, as it comes to us all to do, that care and sorrow bring their own sustaining power, she will not dally among the petty things of life; the wilful waywardness will turn to winning womanliness."
CHAPTER IV
The next afternoon when Amarilly came home from the theatre, her mother met her with another burst of information.
"Miss King and the preacher was here. He's agoin' to give us all the church surpluses to wash and his house-wash, too. Flamingus is to go fer them to the rectry to-night, and you're to go to Miss King's and get the waists she has to be did up. She left two car tickets fer you."
"We air jest astubbin' our toes on luck," gasped Amarilly.
"The fust pay from the new washin's shall go fer a new hat and dress fer you, Amarilly. It's acomin' to you all right. 'Twas you as got this work fer us."
"No!" was the emphatic reply. "We'll git some more cheers, knives, spoons, plates, cups, and two more leaves fer the table, so's the chillern kin all set to table to onct."
"That'll be a hull lot more convenient," admitted Mrs. Jenkins hopefully. "Co spills things so, and the boys quarrel when you and the Boarder ain't here to keep peace. It was jest orful this noon. You wasn't here and the Boarder kerried his dinner. 'Cause Flam put too much vinegar on Milt's beans, Milt poured it down Flam's neck, and when I sent him away from the table he sassed me."
"Jiminy!" protested Amarilly indignantly. "I'd make Milt go without his supper to-night."
"'Tain't his stummick I'm agoin' to punish," said Mrs. Jenkins sarcastically. "I've laid by a willer switch that'll feel sharper than the vinegar he wasted. You'd better go to Miss King's right away—and, Amarilly, mind you ride both ways. It's too far to walk. Don't you sell the tickets!"
This last prohibitory remark was made in remembrance of Amarilly's commercial instincts.
When Amarilly was admitted to the basement of her young benefactress's home a trimly-capped little maid took her to Colette's boudoir.
"Sit down and talk to me, Amarilly. I want to hear more about Lord Algernon and Mr. Vedder and Pete. Here's a box of chocolate creams that must be eaten while they are fresh."
Amarilly was slightly awed at first by the luxurious appointments of the room, but she soon recovered her ease and devoured the novel sweets with appreciative avidity. Then she proved herself a fascinating raconteur of the annals of a world unknown to Colette. It was a matter of course to Amarilly that the leading lady should be supporting an invalid sister; that the languid Lord Algernon should be sending his savings to his old mother who lived in the country; that the understudy should sew industriously through rehearsals and behind the scenes between parts for her two little fatherless girls; that Pete Noyes should "bank" to buy a wheeled chair for his rheumatic father; that the villain was "layin' by" for his parents to come from the Fatherland, and that the company should all chip in to send the property woman's sick child to the seashore. But to Colette the homely little stories were vignettes of another side of life.
"Have you been to the rectory yet, Amarilly?" she asked presently, when
Amarilly's memories of stage life lagged.
"No; Flammy has went fer Mr. St. Mark's things."
"Mr. St. Mark's!"
Colette laughed delightedly.
"I thought you told me that the preacher's name was Mr. St. Marks. You said mebby you could git his wash fer us."
"No,