THE CANOPY BED
copper hair seemed to challenge the glow of the autumn landscape.
She would have passed him with a nod, but he stopped her.
"You must not run away, Mazie Wetherell," he said; "you used to treat me better than that when you were a little girl."
She laughed. "Do you remember my freckles and red hair?"
"I remember your lovely manners."
"I had to have nice manners. It is only pretty children who can afford to be bad."
"And pretty women?" he asked, with his eyes on the color that came and went.
She flung out her hands in a gesture of protest "I have seen so few."
His lips were opened to tell her of her own beauty, but something restrained him, some perception of maidenly dignity that enfolded her and made her more than the girl who had waited on the table.
"You were a polite little boy," she recalled, filling the breach made by his silence. "I remember that you carried me across the street, to save my slippers from the wet. I thought you were wonderful. I have never forgotten."
Neither had Van Alen forgotten. It had been a great feat for his little strength. There had been
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