Part 20 (2/2)

Bud's refusal was emphatic. He knew the kind of hat his mother wanted, and he had noted her quickly suppressed look of disappointment at the sombre hat donated by Mrs. Hudgers on the day of the police-court attendance.

Upon receiving the five dollars he went directly to the Fas.h.i.+on Emporium, where the windows were filled with a heterogeneous a.s.sortment of gayly trimmed hats, marked enticingly with former and present prices.

”I want a hat kivered with flowers,” he announced.

”Who for?” asked the young saleswoman.

”For my mother.”

”How would you like a nice flower toque like this?” displaying a headgear of modest forget-me-nots.

”That's all faded. Ain't you got any red flowers? If you haven't, I know a store where they keep 'em.”

The girl instantly sacrificed her ideas of what was fitting to the certainty of a sale, and quickly produced a hat of green foliage from which rose long-stemmed, nodding red poppies, ”a creation marked down to three-ninety-eight,” she informed him.

”That's the kind! I'll take it and a pair of white gloves, too, if you've got some big ones fer a dollar.”

Bud hastened home with his purchases. His mother was quite overcome by the sight of such finery.

”I never thought to be dressed up again,” she exclaimed on the eventful night, ”No one has bought me nuthin' to wear sence your pa died. I feel like I was some one outen a book.”

The entire family, save Iry, who was put to bed at a neighbor's, went to the recital. The Boarder took Lily Rose, who was quite fl.u.s.tered at her first appearance with the family.

John and Colette occupied a pew directly opposite the family. Mr. Vedder and Pete were also in attendance.

When the bishop came from the vestry and walked down the aisle to his pew, his eyes fell upon the worn, seamed face of Bud's mother, the weary patient eyes in such odd contrast to the youthful turban with its smartly dancing flowers. Something stirred in his well-regulated heart, and he carefully wiped his gla.s.ses.

At the signal from the choirmaster for the solo of the oratorio, Bud arose. An atom of a boy he looked in the vast, vaulted chancel, and for the first time he knew fear at the thought of singing. It was a terrible thing, after all, to face this sea of staring, dancing people. As lightning reaches to steel, the gay poppies nodding so nervously above his mother's white, anxious face sought the courage place within, and urged him on. He felt himself back in Clothes-line Park, alone with his mother and the blue sky.

The little figure filled itself with a long, deep breath. The high, clear note merged into one with the notes of the chorus. It touched the tones of the accompaniment in harmony true, and swelled into grand, triumphant music.

”He looks like he did arter the fever,” thought Amarilly anxiously.

When he came down the aisle with the choir, the ethereal look had left his face, and he was again a happy little boy. He gave his mother a gay nod, and bestowed a wink upon the Boarder. He waited outside and the family wended their way homeward.

There had not been time to bring in the clothes before leaving, but a willing neighborhood had guarded the premises for them, so Clothes-line Park was shrouded in a whiteness that looked ghostly in the moonlight.

They made quite an affair of the evening in honor of Bud's song, and their introduction to Lily Rose. There were fried sausages, coffee, sandwiches, and pork cake.

”The organist told me,” announced Bud at supper, ”that he was agoin' to train my voice, and I could be soloist at Grace Church and git five dollars a Sunday, and after a while I could git ten.”

”You'll be a millynaire,” prophesied Bobby in awed tones.

”Guess we'll be on Easy Street now,” shouted Cory.

”We won't be nuthin' of the kind,” snapped Amarilly. ”It's agoin' to all be banked fer Bud.”

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