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 seash.o.r.e. 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, Amarilly. I did not mean that. St. Mark's is the name of the church where he officiates. He could never under any conditions be a St. Mark."

"Wat's his name?"

"St. John, of course. And most people call him a rector, but really your name suits him best. He does preach--sometimes--to me."

At the end of the week Colette again sent for John--to call "on laundry business"--her little note read.

"I couldn't wait," she said when he came, "to learn how Mrs. Jenkins pleased you. My waists were most beautifully laundered. She is certainly a Madonna of the Tubs."

"You have indeed secured a treasure for me, Colette. The linen is immaculate, and she shall have the laundering of it regularly."

"I am so glad!" exclaimed Colette fervently. "They need it so much, and they are so anxious to please. Amarilly was so apprehensive--"

John's face had become radiant.

"It is sweet in you to be interested, Colette, and--"

"I wish you would see her," said Colette, ignoring his commendatory words and voice. "She's an odd little character. I invited her to luncheon the other day, and the courses and silver never disturbed her apparently. She watched me closely, however, and followed my moves as precisely as a second oarsman. By the way, she called you St. Mark. I know some people consider you and St. Mark's as synonymous, but I explained the difference. She tells me absorbingly interesting stories of theatre life--the life behind the scenes. You see the 'scent of the roses,' John!"

The shadow fell again, but he made no response.

The following Monday the young minister chanced to be in the culinary precincts of the rectory when Amarilly called for the laundry, none of the boys having been available for the service.

An instant gleam of recognition came into his kindly eyes.

"You must be Amarilly Jenkins. I have heard very good accounts of you-- that you are industrious and a great help to your mother."

Amarilly looked at him shrewdly.

"_She_ told you," she affirmed positively.

There was but one "she" in the world of these two, and John Meredith naturally comprehended.

"She's orful good to us," continued Amarilly, "and it was through her, Mr. St. John, that we got the surpluses."

"It was, indeed, Amarilly; but my name is not St. John. It is John Meredith."

"She was jest kiddin' me, then!" deduced Amarilly appreciatively. "I thought at fust as how yer name was St. Mark, and she said you could never be a St. Mark, that you was St. John. She likes a joke. Mr.

Reeves-Eggleston (he's playin' the part of the jilted man in the new play this week) says it's either folks as never hez hed their troubles or them as hez hed more'n their share what laughs at everything, only, he says, it's diffrent kinds of laughs."

The reference to the play reminded John of a duty to perform.

"Miss King told me, Amarilly, that you want to go on the stage when you grow up."

"I did plan to go on, but she said when I got eddicated, I might hear of other things to do--things I'd like better. So mebby I'll change my mind."

A beautiful smile lightened John's dark eyes.

"She, was right, Amarilly. There _are_ things that would be better for you to do, and I--we--will try to help you find them."

"Every one gits the stage fever some time," remarked Amarilly philosophically, "She said so. She said she had it once herself, but she knew now that there was something she would like better."

His smile grew softer.

"She wouldn't tell me what it was," continued Amarilly musingly. Then a troubled look came into her eyes.

"Mebby I shouldn't tell you what she says. Flamingus says I talk too much."

"It was all right to tell me, Amarilly," he replied with radiant eyes, "as long as she said nothing personal."

Amarilly looked mystified.

"I mean," he explained gently, "that she said nothing of me, nothing that you should not repeat. I am glad, though, to see that you are conscientious. Miss King tells me you are to go to the night-school. Do you attend Sunday-school?"

Amarilly looked apologetic.

"Not reg'lar. Thar's a meetin'-house down near us that we go to sometimes. Flamingus and me and Gus give a nickel apiece towards gittin'

a malodeyon fer it, but it squeaks orful. 'Tain't much like the orchestry to the theayter. And then the preacher he whistles every time he says a word that has an 's' in it. You'd orter hear him say: 'Let us sing the seventy-seventh psalm.'"

At the succession of the sibilant sounds, John's brown eyes twinkled brightly, and about his mouth came crinkly, telltale creases of humor.

"And they sing such lonesome tunes," continued Amarilly, "slower than the one the old cow died on. I was tellin' the stage maniger about it, and he said they'd orter git a man to run the meetin'-houses that understood the proper settin's. Everything, he says, is more'n half in the settin's."

"Amarilly," was the earnest response, "will you come to St. Mark's next Sunday to the morning service? The music will please you, I am sure, and there are other things I should like to have you hear."

Amarilly solemnly accepted this invitation, and then went home, trundling a big cart which contained the surplices and the rectory laundry.

Colette's remarks, so innocently repeated to him, made John take himself to task.

"I knew," he thought rapturously, "that she was pure gold at heart. And it is only her sweet willfulness that is hiding it from me."

That evening he found Colette sitting before an open fire in the library, her slender little feet crossed before the glowing blaze. She was in a gentle, musing mood, but at his entrance she instantly rallied to her old mirth-loving spirit.

"I have made Amarilly's acquaintance," he said. "She is coming to church next Sunday."

"A convert already! And you will try to s.n.a.t.c.h poor Amarilly, too, from her footlight dreams?"