His prophecy was fulfilled. Mrs. Jenkins washed the lucrative garment late one afternoon and left it on the line all night. The next morning, to the great consternation of the family and the wild distress of Amarilly, the beloved surplice, that friend of friends in time of need, had vanished. Other clotheslines in the vicinity had also been deprived of their burdens, and a concerted complaint was made to the police, who promptly located the offender and brought him summarily to trial. Mrs. Jenkins was subpoenaed as a witness, which caused quite a ripple of excitement in the family. Divided between dread of appearing in public and pride at the importance with which she was regarded by her little flock, Mrs. Jenkins was quite upset by the occasion. She hadn't attended a function for so long that her costuming therefor was of more concern than had been Amarilly's church raiment. Mrs. Hudgers loaned her mourning bonnet and veil, which was adjusted at half mast. They appeared in direct contradiction to the skirt of bilious green she wore, but the Jenkinses were as unconventional in attire as they were in other things. The family attended the trial _en masse_, and were greatly elated at the prominence their mother had attained. The culprit was convicted and the surplice duly restored. The misfortune was not without profit. Mrs. Jenkins received thirty-five cents as a witness fee. They had managed to pay their household expenses through the summer, but when the rent for August was due there was not quite enough cash on hand to meet this important item of expenditure. Noting the troubled brows of Mrs. Jenkins and Amarilly at breakfast time, the Boarder insisted on knowing the cause. "We're broke, and the rent's overdue," tersely explained Amarilly. "I'm broke, too," sighed the Boarder, "except what I've got in the savin's bank towards--" "Lily Rose," suggested Amarilly softly. "Yes," he admitted, with a beaming look. "But when I go broke, all other things failin', I allers tackle a pawnbroker." "We ain't got nothin' to pawn," sighed Amarilly. She recalled the lace waist, but that, like the Lily Rose fund, was sacred. There was always, to-day, yesterday, and forever, the surplice, and her scruples regarding that article had of necessity become case- hardened; still, Amarilly hesitated. A pawnshop seemed lower than a police court. "It's been everywhere else," she said loudly to the accusing, still, small voice, "and it might jest as well go the limit. 'T won't bring much, but 'twill help." Through byways and highways Amarilly sought the region of the three- balled porticoes. The shop of one Max Solstein attracted her, and she entered his open door. Max, rat-eyed and frog-mouthed, came forward propitiatingly. "What'll you gimme on this?" came with directness from the small importuner. He took the garment, shook it, and held it up for falcon-gaze inspection. "Not worth much. A quarter of a dollar."