"I will advance you the money," he offered. "I would much prefer to do so than to have it left here. How much money do you need to pay your rent?" "We need five dollars," said Amarilly, "to pay the balance of it. But I wouldn't take it from you. I ain't no beggar. I don't believe, nuther," she continued, half to herself, "that Mr. St. John would like it." "Who is Mr. St. John?" he asked curiously. "I know of no such rector in this diocese. My child, you have an honest face. Since you won't accept a gift of money, I will lend, you the amount. I want you to tell me all about yourself and this surplice." "Well, mebby he'd want me to," reflected Amarilly. "Gimme back that surplus," she said to the Jew, who seemed loath to relinquish his booty. As she walked up the street with the bishop, she frankly related the family history and the part Mr. Meredith and the surplice had played therein. The bishop had generous instincts, and a desire to reach the needy directly instead of through the medium of institutions, but he had never known just how to approach them. His presence in this unknown part of the city had been unpremeditated, but he welcomed the chance that had led his steps hither to perform an errand of mercy. He handed Amarilly five dollars, and wrote down her address. He was most reluctant to receive the surplice as security, but Amarilly's firm insistence was not to be overcome. She returned home, rejoicing in the knowledge that she had the price of their happy home in her pocket. The bishop had given her his card, which she laid in a china saucer with other bits of pasteboard she had collected from Derry Phillips, Mr. Vedder, and Pete Noyes. The saucer adorned a small stand in the dining-room part of the house. "It's the way Mrs. Hubbleston kep' her keerds," Amarilly explained to the family. Meantime the bishop was walking in an opposite direction toward his home, wondering if he should find he was mistaken in his estimate of human nature; and a query arose in his mind as to what he should do with the surplice if it were left on his hands. CHAPTER XIII Bud sat in the park,--Clothes-line Park, Amarilly had dubbed it--one Monday afternoon, singing a song of gladness. The park was confined by a clothes-line stretched between three tottering poles and the one solitary poplar tree of the Jenkins estate. The line was hung with white linen garments, and smaller articles adorned the grass plot within the park.