Amarilly of Clothes-line Alley

"It's on your account that I'm ashamed," she said in defence of his

accusation. "I'd want ter look nice fer you."

"That's sweet of you, Amarilly; but if you really want to look nice,

don't think of your clothes. It's other things. Think of your hair, for

instance. It's your best point, and yet you hide it under a bushel and,

worse than that, you braid it so tight I verily believe it's wired."

"I'm used to bein' teased about my red head," she replied. "I don't

keer."

"It's a glorious red, Amarilly. The color the vulgar jeer at, and

artists like your friend and twin, Derry, rave over. You're what is

called 'Titian-haired,'"

"Are you makin' fun, Mr. Derry?" she asked suspiciously.

"No, Amarilly; seriously, I think it the loveliest shade of hair there

is, and now I am going to show you how you should wear it. Unbind it,

all four of those skin-tight braids."

She obeyed him, and a loosened, thick mass of hair fell below her waist.

"Glorious!" he cried fervidly. "Take that comb from the top of your head

and comb it out. There! Now part it, and catch up these strands

loosely--so. I must find a ribbon for a bow. What color would you

suggest, Amarilly?"

"Brown."

"Bravo, Amarilly. If you had said blue, I should have lost all faith in

your future upcoming. Here are two most beautiful brown bows on this

thingamajig some one gave me last Christmas, and whose claim on creation

I never discovered. Let me braid your hair loosely for two and

one-quarter inches. One bow here--another there. Look in the glass,

Amarilly. If I give you these bows will you promise me never to wear

your hair in any other fashion until you are sixteen at least? Off with

your apron! It's picturesque, but soapy and exceedingly wet. You won't

need a hat. It's only around the corner, and I want your hair to be

observed and admired."

Amarilly gained assurance from the reflection of her hair in the mirror,

and they started gayly forth like two school children out for a lark. He

ushered her into a quiet little cafe that had an air of pronounced

elegance about it. In a secluded corner behind some palms came the

subdued notes of stringed instruments. Derry seemed to be well known

here, and his waiter viewed his approach with an air of proprietorship.

"It's dead quiet here," thought Amarilly wonderingly. "Like a church."