had shrunk from the thought of wearing a fumigated garment.

At the King residence Amarilly saw the caretaker, who gave her a similar
message regarding the lace waist.

"I'll keep it," thought Amarilly with a shy little blush, "until I'm
merried. It'll start my trousseau."

She took the garments home, not mentioning to anyone the gift of the
waist, however, for that was to be her secret--her first secret. She hid
this nest-egg of her trousseau in an old trunk which she fastened
securely.

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