"She's orful good to us," continued Amarilly, "and it was through her,
Mr. St. John, that we got the surpluses."
"It was, indeed, Amarilly; but my name is not St. John. It is John
Meredith."
"She was jest kiddin' me, then!" deduced Amarilly appreciatively. "I
thought at fust as how yer name was St. Mark, and she said you could
never be a St. Mark, that you was St. John. She likes a joke. Mr.
Reeves-Eggleston (he's playin' the part of the jilted man in the new
play this week) says it's either folks as never hez hed their troubles
or them as hez hed more'n their share what laughs at everything, only,
he says, it's diffrent kinds of laughs."
The reference to the play reminded John of a duty to perform.
"Miss King told me, Amarilly, that you want to go on the stage when you
grow up."
"I did plan to go on, but she said when I got eddicated, I might hear of
other things to do--things I'd like better. So mebby I'll change my
mind."
A beautiful smile lightened John's dark eyes.
"She, was right, Amarilly. There _are_ things that would be better for
you to do, and I--we--will try to help you find them."
"Every one gits the stage fever some time," remarked Amarilly
philosophically, "She said so. She said she had it once herself, but
she knew now that there was something she would like better."
His smile grew softer.
"She wouldn't tell me what it was," continued Amarilly musingly. Then a
troubled look came into her eyes.
"Mebby I shouldn't tell you what she says. Flamingus says I talk too
much."
"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.'"