Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley

Not even Solomon in all his glory was arrayed in splendor greater than

that displayed by Amarilly when she set forth on Sunday morning for St.

Mark's. Promptness was ever Amarilly's chief characteristic, and she

arrived long in advance of the ushers. This gave her an opportunity to

sample several pews before finally selecting one whose usual occupants,

fortunately, were out of the city.

The vastness and stillness of the edifice, disturbed now and then by

silken rustle and soft-shod foot were bewildering to Amarilly. She

experienced a slight depression until the vibrating tones of the organ

fell softly upon the air. The harmony grew more subdued, ceased, and was

succeeded by another moment of solemn silence. Then a procession of

white-robed choristers came down the aisle, their well-trained voices

ringing out in carolling cadence.

"Them's the chorus," thought Amarilly.

Entranced, she listened to the service, sitting upright and very still.

The spiritual significance of the music, the massing of foliage and

flowers in the chancel, the white altars with their many lighted

candles, were very impressive to the little wide-eyed worshipper.

"Their settin's is all right," she said to herself critically, "and it

ain't like the theayter. It's--"

A sudden revealing light penetrated the shadows of her little being.

"This is the real thing!" she acknowledged.

There was only one disappointment to mar the perfection. She felt quite

aggrieved that Mr. Meredith--or Mr. St. John as she still called him in

her thoughts--did not "come on" in the first act.

"Mebby he don't hev the leadin' part to-day," she thought

disappointedly, as a callow youth, whose hair was pompadoured and whose

chin receded, began to read the lessons for the day. Amarilly was kept

in action by her effort to follow the lead of the man in front of her.

"It's hard to know jest when to set or stand or pray, but it keeps

things from draggin'," she thought, "and thar's no chanct to git sleepy.

It keeps me jest on the hump without no rayhearsal fer all this scene

shiftin'."

Her little heart quickened in glad relief when the erect form of John

Meredith ascended the pulpit to deliver the sermon.

"That other one was jest the understudy," she concluded.

The sermon, strong, simple, and sweet like John himself, was delivered

in a rich, modulated voice whose little underlying note of appeal found

entrance to many a hard-shell heart. The theology was not too deep for

the attentive little scrubber to comprehend, and she was filled with a

longing to be good--very good. She made ardent resolutions not to "jaw"

the boys so much, and to be more gentle with Iry and Go. Her conscience

kept on prodding until she censured herself for not mopping the corners

at the theatre more thoroughly.