"Whose?"
"Mr. Meredith's. He sent us a ten, too."
"Oh!" replied Colette frigidly.
"Then the Boarder give us all he hed. Arterwards come dark days until Mr. Vedder sent us a fiver.—Then thar was an orful day when thar wa'n't a cent and we didn't know whar to turn, and then—It saved us."
"It? What?"
"The surplus. Mr. St. John's surplus. It brung in lots."
"Why, what do you mean, Amarilly?"
"You see 'twas at our house when Iry was fust took sick—same as the waist you gimme was. They couldn't nuther on 'em be sent hum till they was fumygated. Then Mrs. Winders said as how he, Mr. St. John, said as how we was to keep it and cut it up fer the chillern, but we didn't."
"Oh, Amarilly," asked Colette faintly, "do you mean to tell me that the surplice was never delivered to Mr. Meredith?"
"No. Gus didn't take it that night, and in the mornin' when Iry was took it was too late. And then when it got fumygated, Mr. St. John had gone away and he left word we was to keep it."