There was one little ominous cloud in the serene sky of Mrs. Jenkins's
happiness. She had nothing suitable for the occasion of the organ
recital in the way of wearing apparel.

"I feel as if gloves was due you, Bud," she lamented, "but I kin't
afford 'em. I guess I kin put my hands under my mantilly, though, and
folks won't know."

"She'd orter hev 'em, and she'd orter hev a new hat, too," reflected
Bud, and his song became a requiem. He manfully resolved to sacrifice
his future to present needs and curtail the laundry fund. After some
meditation he called upon the bishop, and asked if he might have an
advance of half the amount he would receive for his solo.

The bishop readily assented, but sought the reason for the request.

"My mother is comin' to the recital, but she ain't got no fixin's. I'm
goin' to buy her a hat."

"I am glad you think of your mother, my lad, but it would be well to let
some older person select it for you. My housekeeper--"

Bud's refusal was emphatic. He knew the kind of hat his mother wanted,
and he had noted her quickly suppressed look of disappointment at the
sombre hat donated by Mrs. Hudgers on the day of the police-court
attendance.

Upon receiving the five dollars he went directly to the Fashion
Emporium, where the windows were filled with a heterogeneous assortment
of gayly trimmed hats, marked enticingly with former and present prices.