Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley

"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."