"Oh, that would be sweet!" cried Mrs. Hudgers, brightening perceptibly. "Hallie would look beautiful in it, and 'twould be diffrent from any one else's funeral. How you allers think of things, Amarilly! But I ain't got no dollar to pay you fer it." "If you did hev one," replied Amarilly Indignantly, "I shouldn't let you pay fer it. We're neighbors, and what I kin do fer Hallie I want ter do." "Well, Amarilly, it's certainly fine fer you to feel that way. You don't think," she added with sudden apprehension, "that they'd think the surplus was Hallie's nightshirt, do you?" "Oh, no!" protested Amarilly, shocked at such a supposition. "Besides, you kin tell them all that Hallie's laid out in a surplus. They all seen them to the concert." The funeral passed off with great eclat. The picked choir had resonant voices, and Brother Longgrass preached one of his longest sermons, considerately omitting reference to any of the characteristics of the deceased. Mrs. Hudgers was suitably attired in donated and dusty black. The extremely unconventional garb of Hallie caused some little comment, but it was commonly supposed to be a part of the Episcopalian spirit which the Jenkinses seemed to be inculcating in the neighborhood. Brother Longgrass was a little startled upon beholding the white-robed corpse, but perceiving what comfort it brought to the afflicted mother, he magnanimously forbore to allude to the matter. After the remains had been viewed for the last time, the surplice was removed. In the evening Amarilly called for it. "He did look handsome in it," commented Mrs. Hudgers with a satisfied, reminiscent smile. "I wish I might of hed his likeness took. I'm agoin' to make you take hum this pan of fried cakes Mrs. Holdock fetched in. They'll help fill up the chillern." "I don't want to rob you, Mrs. Hudgers," said Amarilly, gazing longingly at the doughnuts, which were classed as luxuries in the Jenkins's menu. "I dassent eat 'em, Amarilly. If I et jest one, I'd hev dyspepsy orful, and folks hez brung in enough stuff to kill me now. It does beat all the way they bring vittles to a house of mournin'! I only wish Hallie could hev some of 'em." CHAPTER IX The surplice, carefully laundered after the funeral, was ready for new fields of labor. The tenor, first patron of Amarilly's costuming establishment, was wont to loiter in the studio of an artist he knew and relate his about-town adventures. This artist was interested in the annals of the little scrub-girl and her means of livelihood. "I have in mind," he said musingly, "a picture of a musician, the light to be streaming through a stained window on his uplifted head as he sits at an organ." "The Lost Chord?" inquired the tenor. "Nothing quite so bromidic as that," laughed the artist. "I have my model engaged, and I had intended to have you borrow a surplice for me, but you may ask your little customer to rent me her gown for a couple of days."