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“Her great-grandfather and yours were neighbors,” the boy said, with his cheeks flushing; “they own the next farm.”

“The Wetherells?” Van Alen inquired.

The boy nodded. “They ain’t got a cent. They’re land poor. That’s why she’s here. But she don’t need to work.”

“Why not?”

“There’s plenty that wants to marry her round about,” was the boy’s self-conscious summing up.

With a sense of revolt, Van Alen left him, and, undressing in the room with the canopy bed, he called up vaguely the vision of a little girl who had visited them in the city. She had had green eyes and freckles and red hair. Beyond that she had made no impression on his callowness. And her name was Mazie Wetherell.

He threw himself on the couch, and the night winds, coming in through the open window, stirred the curtains of the canopy bed with the light touch of a ghostly hand.

Then dreams came, and through them ran the thread of his hope of seeing Mazie Wetherell in the morning.

But even with such preparation, her beauty seemed to come upon him unawares when he saw her at breakfast. And again at noon, and again at night. But it was the third day before he saw her alone.

All that day he had explored the length and breadth of the family estate, finding it barren, finding that the population of the little village at its edge had decreased to a mere handful of laggards, finding that there was no lawyer within miles and but one doctor; gaining a final impression that back here in the hills men would come no more where once men had thronged.

It was almost evening when he followed a furrowed brown road that led westward. Above the bleak line of the horizon the sun hung, a red gold disk. There were other reds, too, along the way–the sumac flaming scarlet against the gray fence-rails; the sweetbrier, crimson-spotted with berries; the creeper, clinging with ruddy fingers to dead tree-trunks; the maple leaves rosy with first frosts.

And into this vividness came the girl who had waited on the table, and her flaming cheeks and 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 other boys there, bigger boys, but he had offered, and had been saved humiliation by her girlish slimness and feather weight.

“I was a strong little fellow then,” was his comment: “I am a strong little fellow now.”

She turned on him reproachful eyes. “Why do you always harp on it?” she demanded.

“On what?”

“Your size. You twist everything, turn everything, so that we come back to it.”

He tried to answer lightly, but his voice shook. “Perhaps it is because in your presence I desire more than ever the full stature of a man.”

He was in deadly earnest. Hitherto he had been willing to match his brain, his worldly knowledge, his ancestry, against the charms of the women he had met; but here with this girl, standing like a young goddess under the wide, sunset sky, he felt that only for strength and beauty should she choose her mate.