Uncle Alec did not object and, finding that no one had any claimupon the child, permitted Rose to keep it for a time at least. Solittle Dulce, newly equipped even to a name, took her place amongthem and slowly began to thrive. But she did not grow pretty andnever was a gay, attractive child, for she seemed to have been bornin sorrow and brought up in misery. A pale, pensive little creature,always creeping into corners and looking timidly out, as if askingleave to live, and, when offered playthings, taking them with ameek surprise that was very touching.

Rose soon won her heart, and then almost wished she had not, forbaby clung to her with inconvenient fondness, changing her formerwail of "Marmar" into a lament for "Aunty Wose" if separatedlong. Nevertheless, there was great satisfaction in cherishing thelittle waif, for she learned more than she could teach and felt asense of responsibility which was excellent ballast for herenthusiastic nature.

Kitty Van, who made Rose her model in all things, wasimmediately inspired to go and do likewise, to the greatamusement as well as annoyance of her family. Selecting theprettiest, liveliest child in the Asylum, she took it home on trial fora week. "A perfect cherub" she pronounced it the first day, but an"enfant terrible" before the week was over, for the young herorioted by day, howled by night, ravaged the house from top tobottom, and kept his guardians in a series of panics by hishairbreadth escapes. So early on Saturday, poor exhausted Kittyrestored the "cherub" with many thanks, and decided to wait untilher views of education were rather more advanced.

As the warm weather came on, Rose announced that Dulce neededmountain air, for she dutifully repeated as many of Dr. Alec'sprescriptions as possible and, remembering how much good CozyCorner did her long ago, resolved to try it on her baby. Aunt Jessieand Jamie went with her, and Mother Atkinson received them ascordially as ever. The pretty daughters were all married and gone,but a stout damsel took their place, and nothing seemed changedexcept that the old heads were grayer and the young ones a gooddeal taller than six years ago.

Jamie immediately fraternized with neighboring boys and devotedhimself to fishing with an ardor which deserved greater success.Aunt Jessie reveled in reading, for which she had no time at home,and lay in her hammock a happy woman, with no socks to darn,buttons to sew, or housekeeping cares to vex her soul. Rose went about with Dulce like a very devoted hen with onerather feeble chicken, for she was anxious to have this treatmentwork well and tended her little patient with daily increasingsatisfaction. Dr. Alec came up to pass a few days and pronouncedthe child in a most promising condition. But the grand event of theseason was the unexpected arrival of Phebe.

Two of her pupils had invited her to join them in a trip to themountains, and she ran away from the great hotel to surprise herlittle mistress with a sight of her, so well and happy that Rose hadno anxiety left on her account.

Three delightful days they spent, roaming about together, talkingas only girls can talk after a long separation, and enjoying oneanother like a pair of lovers. As if to make it quite perfect, by oneof those remarkable coincidences which sometimes occur, Archiehappened to run up for the Sunday, so Phebe had her surprise, andAunt Jessie and the telegraph kept their secret so well, no one everknew what maternal machinations brought the happy accident topass.

Then Rose saw a very pretty, pastoral bit of lovemaking, and longafter it was over, and Phebe gone one way, Archie another, theecho of sweet words seemed to linger in the air, tender ghosts tohaunt the pine grove, and even the big coffeepot had a halo ofromance about it, for its burnished sides reflected the soft glancesthe lovers interchanged as one filled the other's cup at that lastbreakfast.

Rose found these reminiscences more interesting than any novelshe had read, and often beguiled her long leisure by planning asplendid future for her Phebe as she trotted about after her baby inthe lovely July weather.

On one of the most perfect days she sat under an old apple tree onthe slope behind the house where they used to play. Before heropened the wide intervale, dotted with haymakers at theirpicturesque work. On the left flowed the swift river fringed withgraceful elms in their bravest greenery; on the right rose the purplehills serene and grand; and overhead glowed the midsummer sky,which glorified it all.

Little Dulce, tired of play, lay fast asleep in the nest she had madein one of the haycocks close by, and Rose leaned against thegnarled old tree, dreaming daydreams with her work at her feet.Happy and absorbing fancies they seemed to be, for her face wasbeautifully tranquil, and she took no heed of the train whichsuddenly went speeding down the valley, leaving a white cloudbehind. Its rumble concealed the sound of approaching steps, andher eyes never turned from the distant hills till the abruptappearance of a very sunburned but smiling young man made herjump up, exclaiming joyfully: "Why, Mac! Where did you dropfrom?"

"The top of Mount Washington. How do you do?"

"Never better. Won't you go in? You must be tired after such afall."

"No, thank you. I've seen the old lady. She told me Aunt Jessie andthe boy had gone to town and that you were 'settin' round' in theold place. I came on at once and will take a lounge here if youdon't mind," answered Mac, unstrapping his knapsack and taking ahaycock as if it were a chair.

Rose subsided into her former seat, surveying her cousin withmuch satisfaction as she said: "This is the third surprise I've hadsince I came. Uncle popped in upon us first, then Phebe, and nowyou. Have you had a pleasant tramp? Uncle said you were off."

"Delightful! I feel as if I'd been in heaven, or near it, for aboutthree weeks, and thought I'd break the shock of coming down tothe earth by calling here on my way home."

"You look as if heaven suited you. Brown as a berry, but so freshand happy I should never guess you had been scrambling down amountain," said Rose, trying to discover why he looked so well inspite of the blue flannel suit and dusty shoes, for there was acertain sylvan freshness about him as he sat there full of reposefulstrength the hills seemed to have given, the wholesome cheerfuldays of air and sunshine put into a man, and the clear, bright lookof one who had caught glimpses of a new world from themountaintop.

"Tramping agrees with me. I took a dip in the river as I came alongand made my toilet in a place where Milton's Sabrina might havelived," he said, shaking back his damp hair and settling the knot ofscarlet bunchberries stuck in his buttonhole.

"You look as if you found the nymph at home," said Rose,knowing how much he liked the "Comus."

"I found her here," and he made a little bow.

"That's very pretty, and I'll give you one in return. You grow morelike Uncle Alec every day, and I think I'll call you Alec, Jr."

"Alexander the Great wouldn't thank you for that," and Mac didnot look as grateful as she had expected.

"Very like, indeed, except the forehead. His is broad andbenevolent, yours high and arched. Do you know if you had nobeard, and wore your hair long, I really think you'd look likeMilton," added Rose, sure that would please him.

It certainly did amuse him, for he lay back on the hay and laughedso heartily that his merriment scared the squirrel on the wall andwoke Dulce.

"You ungrateful boy! Will nothing suit you? When I say you looklike the best man I know, you gave a shrug, and when I liken youto a great poet, you shout. I'm afraid you are very conceited, Mac."And Rose laughed, too, glad to see him so gay.

"If I am, it is your fault. Nothing I can do will ever make a Miltonof me, unless I go blind someday," he said, sobering at the thought.

"You once said a man could be what he liked if he tried hardenough, so why shouldn't you be a poet?" asked Rose, liking to triphim up with his own words, as he often did her.

"I thought I was to be an M.D."

"You might be both. There have been poetical doctors, you know."

"Would you like me to be such a one?" asked Mac, looking at heras seriously as if he really thought of trying it.

"No. I'd rather have you one or the other. I don't care which, onlyyou must be famous in either you choose. I'm very ambitious foryou, because, I insist upon it, you are a genius of some sort. I thinkit is beginning to simmer already, and I've got a great curiosity toknow what it will turn out to be."

Mac's eyes shone as she said that, but before he could speak a littlevoice said, "Aunty Wose!" and he turned to find Dulce sitting up inher nest staring at the broad blue back before her with round eyes.

"Do you know your Don?" he asked, offering his hand withrespectful gentleness, for she seemed a little doubtful whether hewas a friend or stranger.

"It is 'Mat,'" said Rose, and that familiar word seemed to reassurethe child at once, for, leaning forward, she kissed him as if quiteused to doing it.

"I picked up some toys for her, by the way, and she shall havethem at once to pay for that. I didn't expect to be so graciouslyreceived by this shy mouse," said Mac, much gratified, for Dulcewas very chary of her favors.

"She knew you, for I always carry my home album with me, andwhen she comes to your picture she always kisses it, because Inever want her to forget her first friend," explained Rose, pleasedwith her pupil.

"First, but not best," answered Mac, rummaging in his knapsackfor the promised toys, which he set forth upon the hay beforedelighted Dulce.

Neither picture books nor sweeties, but berries strung on longstems of grass, acorns, and pretty cones, bits of rock shining withmica, several bluebirds' feathers, and a nest of moss with whitepebbles for eggs.

"Dearest Nature, strong and kind" knows what children love, andhas plenty of such playthings ready for them all, if one only knowshow to find them. These were received with rapture. And leavingthe little creature to enjoy them in her own quiet way, Mac beganto tumble the things back into his knapsack again. Two or threebooks lay near Rose, and she took up one which opened at a placemarked by a scribbled paper.

"Keats? I didn't know you condescended to read anything somodern," she said, moving the paper to see the page beneath.

Mac looked up, snatched the book out of her hand, and shookdown several more scraps, then returned it with a curiouslyshamefaced expression, saying, as he crammed the papers into hispocket, "I beg pardon, but it was full of rubbish. Oh, yes! I'm fondof Keats. Don't you know him?"

"I used to read him a good deal, but Uncle found me crying overthe 'Pot of Basil' and advised me to read less poetry for a while or Ishould get too sentimental," answered Rose, turning the pageswithout seeing them, for a new idea had just popped into her head.

"'The Eve of St. Agnes' is the most perfect love story in the world,I think," said Mac, enthusiastically.

"Read it to me. I feel just like hearing poetry, and you will do itjustice if you are fond of it," said Rose, handing him the book withan innocent air.

"Nothing I'd like better, but it is rather long."

"I'll tell you to stop if I get tired. Baby won't interrupt; she will becontented for an hour with those pretty things."

As if well pleased with his task, Mac laid himself comfortably onthe grass and, leaning his head on his hand, read the lovely story asonly one could who entered fully into the spirit of it. Rose watchedhim closely and saw how his face brightened over some quaintfancy, delicate description, or delicious word; heard how smoothlythe melodious measures fell from his lips, and read somethingmore than admiration in his eyes as he looked up now and then tomark if she enjoyed it as much as he.

She could not help enjoying it, for the poet's pen painted as well aswrote, and the little romance lived before her, but she was notthinking of John Keats as she listened; she was wondering if thiscousin was a kindred spirit, born to make such music and leave assweet an echo behind him. It seemed as if it might be; and, aftergoing through the rough caterpillar and the pent-up chrysalischanges, the beautiful butterfly would appear to astonish anddelight them all. So full of this fancy was she that she neverthanked him when the story ended but, leaning forward, asked in atone that made him start and look as if he had fallen from theclouds: "Mac, do you ever write poetry?"

"Never."

"What do you call the song Phebe sang with her bird chorus?"

"That was nothing till she put the music to it. But she promised notto tell."

"She didn't. I suspected, and now I know," laughed Rose, delightedto have caught him.

Much discomfited, Mac gave poor Keats a fling and, leaning onboth elbows, tried to hide his face for it had reddened like that of amodest girl when teased about her lover.

"You needn't look so guilty; it is no sin to write poetry," said Rose,amused at his confession.

"It's a sin to call that rubbish poetry," muttered Mac with greatscorn.

"It is a greater sin to tell a fib and say you never write it."

"Reading so much sets one thinking about such things, and everyfellow scribbles a little jingle when he is lazy or in love, youknow," explained Mac, looking very guilty.

Rose could not quite understand the change she saw in him till hislast words suggested a cause which she knew by experience wasapt to inspire young men. Leaning forward again, she askedsolemnly, though her eyes danced with fun, "Mac, are you inlove?"

"Do I look like it?" And he sat up with such an injured andindignant face that she apologized at once, for he certainly did notlook loverlike with hayseed in his hair, several lively cricketsplaying leapfrog over his back, and a pair of long legs stretchingfrom tree to haycock.

"No, you don't, and I humbly beg your pardon for making such anunwarrantable insinuation. It merely occurred to me that thegeneral upliftedness I observe in you might be owing to that, sinceit wasn't poetry."

"It is the good company I've been keeping, if anything. A fellowcan't spend 'A Week' with Thoreau and not be the better for it. I'mglad I show it, because in the scramble life is to most of us, evenan hour with such a sane, simple, and sagacious soul as his musthelp one," said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocketwith the air of introducing a dear and honored friend.

"I've read bits, and like them they are so original and fresh andsometimes droll," said Rose, smiling to see what natural andappropriate marks of approbation the elements seemed to set uponthe pages Mac was turning eagerly, for one had evidently beenrained on, a crushed berry stained another, some appreciativefield-mouse or squirrel had nibbled one corner, and the cover wasfaded with the sunshine, which seemed to have filtered through tothe thoughts within.

"Here's a characteristic bit for you: 'I would rather sit on apumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvetcushion. I would rather ride on earth in an oxcart, with freecirculation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursiontrain, and breathe malaria all the way.'

"I've tried both and quite agree with him," laughed Mac, andskimming down another page, gave her a paragraph here and there.

"'Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to readthem at all.'

"'We do not learn much from learned books, but from sincerehuman books: frank, honest biographies.'

"'At least let us have healthy books. Let the poet be as vigorous asthe sugar maple, with sap enough to maintain his own verdure,besides what runs into the trough; and not like a vine which, beingcut in the spring, bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavorto heal its wounds.'"

"That will do for you," said Rose, still thinking of the newsuspicion which pleased her by its very improbability.

Mac flashed a quick look at her and shut the book, saying quietly,although his eyes shone, and a conscious smile lurked about hismouth: "We shall see, and no one need meddle, for, as my Thoreausays,

Rose sat silent, as if conscious that she deserved his poeticalreproof.

"Come, you have catechized me pretty well; now I'll take my turnand ask you why you look 'uplifted,' as you call it. What have youbeen doing to make yourself more like your namesake than ever?"asked Mac, carrying war into the enemy's camp with the suddenquestion.

"Nothing but live, and enjoy doing it. I actually sit here, day afterday, as happy and contented with little things as Dulce is and feelas if I wasn't much older than she," answered the girl, feeling as ifsome change was going on in that pleasant sort of pause but unableto describe it.

"As if a rose should shut and be a bud again," murmured Mac,borrowing from his beloved Keats.

"Ah, but I can't do that! I must go on blooming whether I like it ornot, and the only trouble I have is to know what leaf I ought tounfold next," said Rose, playfully smoothing out the white gown,in which she looked very like a daisy among the green.

"How far have you got?" asked Mac, continuing his catechism as ifthe fancy suited him.

"Let me see. Since I came home last year, I've been gay, then sad,then busy, and now I am simply happy. I don't know why, but seemto be waiting for what is to come next and getting ready for it,perhaps unconsciously," she said, looking dreamily away to thehills again, is if the new experience was coming to her from afar.

Mac watched her thoughtfully for a minute, wondering how manymore leaves must unfold before the golden heart of this humanflower would lie open to the sun. He felt a curious desire to help insome way, and could think of none better than to offer her what hehad found most helpful to himself. Picking up another book, heopened it at a place where an oak leaf lay and, handing it to her,said, as if presenting something very excellent and precious: "Ifyou want to be ready to take whatever comes in a brave and nobleway, read that, and the one where the page is turned down."

Rose took it, saw the words "Self-Reliance," and turning theleaves, read here and there a passage which was marked: "'My lifeis for itself, and not for a spectacle.'

"'Insist on yourself: never imitate. That which each can do best,none but his Maker can teach him.'

"'Do that which is assigned to you, and you cannot hope or daretoo much.'"

Then, coming to the folded page, whose title was "Heroism," sheread, and brightened as she read:

"'Let the maiden, with erect soul, walk serenely on her way;accept the hint of each new experience; search in turn all theobjects that solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and thecharm of her newborn being.'

"'The fair girl who repels interference by a decided and proudchoice of influences inspires every beholder with something of herown nobleness; and the silent heart encourages her. O friend, neverstrike sail to a fear! Come into port greatly, or sail with God theseas.'"

"You understand that, don't you?" asked Mac as she glanced upwith the look of one who had found something suited to her tasteand need.

"Yes, but I never dared to read these Essays, because I thoughtthey were too wise for me."

"The wisest things are sometimes the simplest, I think. Everyonewelcomes light and air, and cannot do without them, yet very fewcould explain them truly. I don't ask you to read or understand allof that don't myself but I do recommend the two essays I'vemarked, as well as 'Love' and 'Friendship.' Try them, and let meknow how they suit. I'll leave you the book."

"Thanks. I wanted something fine to read up here and, judging bywhat I see, I fancy this will suit. Only Aunt Jessie may think I'mputting on airs if I try Emerson."

"Why should she? He has done more to set young men and womenthinking than any man in this century at least. Don't you be afraidif it is what you want, take it, and go ahead as he tells you

"I'll try," said Rose meekly, feeling that Mac had been going aheadhimself much faster than she had any suspicion.

Here a voice exclaimed "Hallo!" and, looking around, Jamie wasdiscovered surveying them critically as he stood in an independentattitude, like a small Colossus of Rhodes in brown linen, with abundle of molasses candy in one hand, several new fishhookscherished carefully in the other, and his hat well on the back of hishead, displaying as many freckles as one somewhat limited nosecould reasonably accommodate.

"How are you, young one?" said Mac, nodding.

"Tip-top. Glad it's you. Thought Archie might have turned upagain, and he's no fun. Where did you come from? What did youcome for? How long are you going to stay? Want a bit? It's jollygood."

With which varied remarks Jamie approached, shook hands in amanly way, and, sitting down beside his long cousin, hospitablyoffered sticks of candy all around.

"Did you get any letters?" asked Rose, declining the sticky treat.

"Lots, but Mama forgot to give 'em to me, and I was rather in ahurry, for Mrs. Atkinson said somebody had come and I couldn'twait," explained Jamie, reposing luxuriously with his head onMac's legs and his mouth full.

"I'll step and get them. Aunty must be tired, and we should enjoyreading the news together."

"She is the most convenient girl that ever was," observed Jamie asRose departed, thinking Mac might like some more substantialrefreshment than sweetmeats.

"I should think so, if you let her run your errands, you lazy littlescamp," answered Mac, looking after her as she went up the greenslope, for there was something very attractive to him about theslender figure in a plain white gown with a black sash about thewaist and all the wavy hair gathered to the top of the head with alittle black bow.

"Sort of pre-Raphaelite, and quite refreshing after the furbelowedcreatures at the hotels," he said to himself as she vanished underthe arch of scarlet runners over the garden gate.

"Oh, well! She likes it. Rose is fond of me, and I'm very good toher when I have time," continued Jamie, calmly explaining. "I lether cut out a fishhook, when it caught in my leg, with a sharppenknife, and you'd better believe it hurt, but I never squirmed abit, and she said I was a brave boy. And then, one day I got left onmy desert island out in the pond, you know the boat floated off,and there I was for as much as an hour before I could make anyonehear. But Rose thought I might be there, and down she came, andtold me to swim ashore. It wasn't far, but the water was horridcold, and I didn't like it. I started though, just as she said, and goton all right, till about halfway, then cramp or something made meshut up and howl, and she came after me slapdash, and pulled meashore. Yes, sir, as wet as a turtle, and looked so funny, I laughed,and that cured the cramp. Wasn't I good to mind when she said,'Come on'?"

"She was, to dive after such a scapegrace. I guess you lead her alife of it, and I'd better take you home with me in the morning,"suggested Mac, rolling the boy over and giving him a good-naturedpummeling on the haycock while Dulce applauded from her nest.

When Rose returned with ice-cold milk, gingerbread, and letters,she found the reader of Emerson up in the tree, pelting and beingpelted with green apples as Jamie vainly endeavored to get at him.The siege ended when Aunt Jessie appeared, and the rest of theafternoon was spent in chat about home affairs.

Early the next morning Mac was off, and Rose went as far as theold church with him.

"Shall you walk all the way?" she asked as he strode along besideher in the dewy freshness of the young day.

"Only about twenty miles, then take car and whisk back to mywork," he answered, breaking a delicate fern for her.

"Are you never lonely?"

"Never. I take my best friends along, you know," and he gave aslap to the pocket from which peeped the volume of Thoreau.

"I'm afraid you leave your very best behind you," said Rose,alluding to the book he had lent her yesterday.

"I'm glad to share it with you. I have much of it here, and a littlegoes a great way, as you will soon discover," he answered, tappinghis head.

"I hope the reading will do as much for me as it seems to havedone for you. I'm happy, but you are wise and good I want to bealso."

"Read away, and digest it well, then write and tell me what youthink of it. Will you?" he asked as they paused where the fourroads met.

"If you will answer. Shall you have time with all your other work?Poetry I beg pardon medicine is very absorbing, you know,"answered Rose mischievously, for just then, as he stoodbareheaded in the shadows of the leaves playing over his fineforehead, she remembered the chat among the haycocks, and hedid not look at all like an M.D.

"I'll make time."

"Good-bye, Milton."

"Good-bye, Sabrina."