“Do you mean,” I asked breathlessly, “to let them have services in this—”
“Here with us, in the drawing-room,” Pelleas explained. “Why not? There were fifty in the room for that Lenten morning musicale. There’s the piano for the music. And the lilies—the lilies—”
“Of course we will,” I cried. “But, O, will they come? Do you think they will come?”
I turned to our little friend, and she had risen and was waiting with shining eyes.
“O, ma’am,” she said, trembling, “why, ma’am! O, yes’m, they’ll come. I’ll get ’em here myself. O, Mr. Lovelow, he’ll be so glad....”
She flew to her bright hat and worn coat and crimson muffler.
“Mr. Lovelow says,” she cried, “that a shabby church is just as much a holy temple as the ark of the gover’ment—but he was so glad when we dyed the spread for the orgin—O, ma’am,” she broke off, knotting the crimson scarf about her throat, “do you really want ’em? They ain’t—you know they don’t look—”
“Hurry, child,” said Pelleas, “and mind you don’t let one of them escape!”
When she was gone we looked at each other in panic.
“Pelleas,” I cried, trembling, “think of all there is to be done in ten minutes.”