"I'll let it go six days fer four dollars," bargained Amarilly.

"Well, seeing you have come down on your offer, I'll come up a little on
mine. I'll take it for three-fifty."

Amarilly considered.

"I will, if you'll throw in one of them caps fer my brother."

"All right," laughed the proprietor. "I think we'll call it a bargain.
See if you can't dig up one of those caps for her, Ben."

Without much difficulty Ben produced a cap, and Amarilly hurried home
for the surplice. She went down to the Beehive every day during the
wedding-window week and feasted her eyes on the beloved gown. She took
all the glory of the success of the display to her own credit, and her
feelings were very much like those of the writer of a play on a first
night.

From a wedding to a funeral was the natural evolution of a surplice, but
this time it did not appear in its customary role. Instead of adorning a
minister, it clad the corpse. Mrs. Hudgers's only son, a scalawag, who
had been a constant drain on his mother's small stipend, was taken ill
and died, to the discreetly disguised relief of the neighborhood.

"I'm agoin' to give Hallie a good funeral," Mrs. Hudgers confided to
Amarilly. "I'm agoin' to hev hacks and flowers and singin' If yer St.
Mark's man was to hum now, I should like to have him fishyate."