"Bossy," he said in gently reproaching tones, "how could you give me such a skeer? I thought I'd lost you, and I'd hev sure missed you—you, yerself—more'n I would the money your milk brings us."
Then for the first time, the lad's eyes noted the decorated horns.
"What in thunder—"
He began to unwind the ribbons of white cloth, the stringed remnants of the surplice.
"Gracious Peter! It's the surplus! What will Amarilly say—and Lily Rose? It's only fit fer carpet rags now. Well, if this ain't the end of the surplus after all it has went through! I wonder what bossy wanted of it? Thought jest cause she was a cow, she must be a cow ketcher, I suppose."
Great was the joy of the Jenkinses at the restoration of the cow, but there was grievous lament from Amarilly for the fate of the precious garment.
"It was our friend—our friend in need!" she mourned.
"I'm so glad we hev a picter of it," said Lily Rose, gazing fondly at the photograph of the Boarder in the saintly robes.
"I'll go and tell Miss King," said Amarilly the next morning. "She said she felt that the surplice would come to some tragic end."
"It was a fitting fate for so mysterious a garment," commented Colette. "You couldn't expect any ordinary, common-place ending for the surplice. After officiating at funerals, weddings, shop-windows, theatres, pawnshops, and bishops' dwellings, it could never have simply worn out, or died of old age."