The teacher at the Guild was even more beautiful than Amarilly's fancy,
fed by the little girl's vivid description, had pictured.
"Her hair ain't boughten," decided the keen-eyed critic as she gazed
adoringly at the golden braids crowning the small head. The color of her
eyes was open to speculation; when they had changed from gray to green,
from green to hazel, and from hazel to purple, Amarilly gave up the
enigma. The color of her complexion changed, too, in the varying tints
of peaches.
"I do b'lieve she ain't got no make-up on," declared Amarilly
wonderingly.
The little daughter of the stage-hand had not overappraised the diamond.
It shone resplendent on a slender, shapely hand.
"Miss King, I've brung a new scholar," introduced the little girl
importantly. "She's Amarilly."
As she glanced at her new pupil, the young teacher's eyes brightened
with spontaneous interest, and a welcoming smile parted her lips.
"I'm glad to see you, Amarilly. Here's a nice little pile of blue carpet
rags to sew and make into a ball. When you have made a lot of balls I'll
have them woven into a pretty blue rug for you to take home and keep."
"For the Boarder's room!" thought Amarilly joyously, as she went at her
work with the avidity that marked all her undertakings.
Presently a small seamstress asked for instruction as to the proper
method of putting the strips together. The fair face of the young
teacher became clouded for a moment, and she was unmistakably confused.
Her wavering, dubious glance fell upon Amarilly sitting tense and
upright as she made quick, forceful, and effective stabs with her
needle, biting her thread vigorously and resonantly. The stitches were
microscopic and even; the strips symmetrically and neatly joined.
The teacher's face cleared as she saw and seized her avenue of escape.
"You may all," she directed, "look at Amarilly's work and sew the strips
just as she does. Hers are perfect."
[Illustration: "You may all," she directed, "look at Amarilly's work."]
Amarilly's wan little face brightened, and she proceeded to show the
children how to sew, bringing the same ease and effectiveness into her
tutoring that she displayed when instructing her brothers and Cory.
The sewing lesson continued for an hour. Then the children sang songs to
a piano accompaniment, and there followed a lesson in cooking and the
proper setting of a table. All this instruction was succeeded by an
informal chat.
"I want you all to tell me what you are going to do when you grow to be
women," said Miss King.
In most cases the occupations of their parents were chosen, and the
number of washerwomen, scrubbers, and seamstresses in embryo was
appalling.
"And you, Amarilly?" she asked, addressing the new pupil last of all.
Amarilly's mien was lofty, her voice consequential, as she replied in
dramatic dénouement:
"I'm goin' on the stage!"
The young teacher evinced a most eager interest in this declaration.
"Oh, Amarilly! We all have a stage-longing period. When did you first
think of such a career?"
"I'm in the perfesshun now," replied Amarilly pompously.
"Really! Tell me what you do, Amarilly."
"I scrub at the Barlow Theatre, and I went to the matinee day afore
yisterday. I hed a pass give to me."
These statements made such a visible impression on her audience that
Amarilly waxed eloquent and proceeded to describe the play, warming to
her work as she gained confidence. The gestures of Lord Algernon and the
leading lady were reproduced freely, fearlessly, and faithfully.
With a glimmer of mischief dancing in her eyes, the young teacher
listened appreciatively but apprehensively as she noted the amazed
expression on the faces of the teachers of adjacent classes when
Amarilly's treble tones were wafted toward them. Fortunately, the
realistic rendering of Lord Algernon's declaration of love was
interrupted by the accompaniment to a song, which was followed by the
dismissal of the school.
"Kin I take my strips home to sew on?" asked Amarilly.
"Oh, no!" replied Miss King. "That is not permitted."
Seeing the look of disappointment in the child's eyes, she asked in
kindly tone:
"Why are you in such a hurry to finish the work, Amarilly?"
"We've took a Boarder," explained Amarilly, "and I want the rug fer his
room. It'll take an orful long time to git it done if I only work on it
an hour onct a week. He's so good to me, I want to do something to make
his room look neat, so he'll feel to hum."
The young teacher reflected a moment.
"I'll tell you what we'll do, Amarilly. I will buy one of the rugs that
are to be on sale at the church fair this week. They have some very nice
large ones. I will give it to you, and when yours is finished you may
give it to me in return."
"Oh, thank you!" cried Amarilly, her countenance brightening, "But won't
you need it afore I kin git this one done?"
"No; I am sure I shall not," replied the young lady gravely.
When they left the building the teacher paused as she was about to step
into her electric brougham. "Where do you live, Amarilly?"
Amarilly gave her street and number.
"You must live farther away than any of the other children. Get in,
dear; I will take you home."
She had opened the door as she spoke, and the little scrubber's eyes
were dazzled by the elegance of the appointments--a silver vase filled
with violets, a silver card-case, and--but Amarilly resolutely shut her
eyes upon this proffered grandeur and turned to the lean but longing
little daughter of the stage-hand.
"You see, I come with her," she explained simply and loyally.
"There is room for you both. Myrtie can sit on this little seat."
Overawed by the splendor of her environment, Amarilly held her breath as
they glided swiftly through the streets. There was other glory, it
seemed, than that of the footlights. When the happy little Myrtle had
been left at her humble home the young teacher turned with eager
anticipation to Amarilly.
"Tell me more about yourself, Amarilly. First of all, who is the
Boarder?"
Amarilly explained their affairs, even to the "double-decker diner," as
the Boarder had called the table arrangement.
"And what has he done for you, Amarilly, that you are so anxious he
should have a rug?"
"He's larnin' me readin', writin', spellin', and figgers."
"Don't you go to school?"
"No; I hev to bring in wages and help ma with the washin's."
"I'll teach you, Amarilly," she said impulsively. "I'm sure I'm more
proficient in those branches than the Boarder."
"He sez," admitted Amarilly, "that it won't take him long to larn me all
he knows; but you see--" She spoke with delicate hesitancy and evident
embarrassment. "It's orful good in you to want to larn me--but he might
feel hurt-like if I was to quit him."
"You are right, Amarilly. You are a loyal little girl. But I tell you
what we will do about it. When you have learned all that the Boarder
feels he can teach you, you shall go to night-school. There is one in
connection with St. Mark's. I will see that you enter there."
"I didn't know thar was one fer girls," said Amarilly. "I'm glad thar's
a way fer me to git eddicated, fer I must hev larnin' afore I kin go on
the stage. Mr. Vedder, the ticket-seller to Barlow's, told me so."
"Amarilly,"--and an earnest note crept into the gay, young voice--"you
may find things that you will like to do more than to go on the stage."
"No!" asserted the youthful aspirant, "Thar ain't nuthin' else I'd like
so well."
"Amarilly, I am going to tell you something. Once, not long ago, I had
the stage fever, but I think I know now there is something--something I
should like better."
"What?" queried Amarilly skeptically.
"I can't tell you now, but you have a long time yet in which to decide
your future. Tell me what I can do to help your mother."
"If you could git us more washin's," exclaimed Amarilly eagerly, "it
would help heaps. We could take in lots more than we do now."
"Let me think. You see we keep a laundress; but--does your mother do up
very fine things--like laces--carefully?"
"She does," replied Amarilly glibly. "She kin do 'em orful keerful, and
we dry the colored stuffs in the shade. And our clo'es come out snow-
white allers, and we never tears laces nor git in too much bluin' or
starch the way some folks does."
"Then I'll give you my address and you can come for my fine waists; and
let me see, I am sure I can get St. Mark's laundry work for you, too."
"You're orful good, Miss King. This is where we hev to turn down this
'ere court."
The "court" appeared to Miss King more like an alley. The advent of the
brougham in the little narrow right-of-way filled every window with
hawk-eyed observers. About the Jenkins's doorstep was grouped the entire
household from the Boarder to the baby, and the light, musical voices of
children floating through the soft spring air fell pleasantly upon the
ears of the young settlement worker.
"So this is where you live, Amarilly?" she asked, her eyes sparkling as
she focussed them on the family. "You needn't come for the washing the
first time. I will bring it myself so I can see all your little
brothers. Be sure to come to the Guild next Saturday, and then I'll have
the rug for you to take home. Goodbye, dear."
Knowing that she was observed by myriad eyes, Amarilly stepped loftily
from the brougham and made a sweeping stage courtesy to her departing
benefactress.
"Are you on the stage now, Amarilly?" asked Co eagerly as she came to
meet her sister.
"No; but she," with a wave of her hand toward the swiftly gliding
electric, "is agoin to help me git eddicated, and she has give me a
beautiful rug fer the Boarder, and we're agoin' to hev her waists to
wash, and Mr. St. Mark's clo'es, and she told all the scholars to sew
like me 'cause' I sewed the best, and I've larned how to set our table.
We mustn't stack up the knife and fork and spoon on ends any more. The
knife goes to the right, the fork to the left of the plate, and the
spoon goes back of it and the tumbler and the napkin, when you has 'em,
to the right."
"I do declare, Amarilly, if it ain't jest like a fairy story!" cried
Mrs. Jenkins enthusiastically. "You allers did strike luck."
"You bet!" cried Bobby admiringly. "Things go some where Amarilly is."
Amarilly was happier even than she had been on the night of the eventful
matinée day. The electric brougham had seemed a veritable fairy
godmother's coach to her. But it was not the ride that stood uppermost
in her memory as she lay awake far into the night; it was the little
word of endearment uttered in caressing cadence.
"No one ain't ever called me that afore," she murmured wistfully. "I
s'pose ma ain't hed time, and thar was no one else to keer."
Impulsively and tenderly her thin little arm encircled the baby sleeping
beside her.
"Dear!" she whispered in an awed tone. "Dear!"
Iry answered with a sleepy, cooing note.