She had but just finished this narrative when suddenly in the line of her vision came the form of the young rector himself. He had been ushered out by the Boarder, who was still actively engaged in "redding up." "I came to call upon you, for I consider you one of my parishioners now," he said to Amarilly, his face flushing at the unexpected encounter with Colette. Amarilly breathed a devout prayer of thankfulness that the last surplice had been removed and was now being put to soak by her mother. Colette's eyes were dancing with the delight of mischief-making as she directed, in soft but mirthful tones: "Tell Mr. St. John about your choir and concert." Amarilly's eyes lowered in consternation. She was in great awe of this young man whose square chin was in such extreme contradiction to his softly luminous eyes, and she began to feel less fortified by the reminder of the "cause." "I'd ruther not," she faltered. "Then don't, Amarilly," he said gently. "Mebby that's why I'd orter," she acknowledged, lifting serious eyes to his. "You said that Sunday that we wa'n't to turn out of the way fer hard things." "I don't want it to be hard for you to tell me anything, Amarilly," he said reassuringly. "Suppose you show me that you trust me by telling me about your concert." So once more Amarilly gave a recital of her plan for raising money for the mission, and of its successful fulfilment. John listened with varying emotions, struggling heroically to maintain his gravity as he heard of the realization of the long-cherished, long-deferred dream of Mrs. Hudgers. "And we took in thirty-seven cents," she said in breathless excitement, as she handed him the contents of the pie tin. "Amarilly," he replied fervently, with the look that Colette was learning to love, "you did just right to use the surplices, and this contribution means more to me than any I have received. It was a sweet and generous thought that prompted your concert." Amarilly's little heart glowed with pride at this acknowledgment. At that moment came Bud, singing a snatch of his solo. "Is this the little brother that sang the offertory?" "Yes; that's him--Bud." "Bud, will you sing it again for me, now?" "Sure thing!" said the atom of a boy, promptly mounting a soap box. He threw back a mop of thick black hair, rolled his eyes ceilingward, and let his sweet, clear voice have full sway. "Oh, Bud, you darling! Why didn't you tell me he could sing like that, Amarilly?" cried Colette at the close of the song. "We must have him in St. Mark's choir," declared Mr. Meredith. "You may bring him to the rectory to-morrow, Amarilly, and I will have the choirmaster try his voice. Besides receiving instruction and practice every week, he will be paid for his singing." Money for Bud's voice! So much prosperity was scarcely believable. "Fust the Guild school, Miss King's washing, the surpluses, and now Bud!" thought Amarilly exuberantly. "Next thing I know, I'll be on the stage."