Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley

"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.