Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley

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.