Part 2 (1/2)
”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 was.h.i.+n'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 embarra.s.sment. ”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!” a.s.serted 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 was.h.i.+n'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 was.h.i.+ng the first time. I will bring it myself so I can see all your little brothers. Be sure to come to the Guild next Sat.u.r.day, 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.”