"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