"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.