Rose, meantime, was trying to find out what the sentiment waswith which she regarded her cousin Mac. She could not seem toreconcile the character she had known so long with the new onelately shown her, and the idea of loving the droll, bookish,absentminded Mac of former times appeared quite impossible andabsurd, but the new Mac, wide awake, full of talent, ardent andhigh-handed, was such a surprise to her, she felt as if her heart wasbeing won by a stranger, and it became her to study him wellbefore yielding to a charm which she could not deny.

Affection came naturally, and had always been strong for the boy;regard for the studious youth easily deepened to respect for theintegrity of the young man, and now something warmer wasgrowing up within her; but at first she could not decide whether itwas admiration for the rapid unfolding of talent of some sort orlove answering to love.

As if to settle that point, Mac sent her on New Year's Day a littlebook plainly bound and modestly entitled Songs and Sonnets.After reading this with ever-growing surprise and delight, Rosenever had another doubt about the writer's being a poet, for thoughshe was no critic, she had read the best authors and knew what wasgood. Unpretentious as it was, this had the true ring, and its verysimplicity showed conscious power for, unlike so many firstattempts, the book was not full of "My Lady," neither did it indulgein Swinburnian convulsions about

or contain any of the highly colored medieval word pictures somuch in vogue. "My book should smell of pines, and resound withthe hum of insects," might have been its motto, so sweet andwholesome was it with a springlike sort of freshness which plainlybetrayed that the author had learned some of Nature's deepestsecrets and possessed the skill to tell them in tuneful words. Thesongs went ringing through one's memory long after they wereread, and the sonnets were full of the subtle beauty, insight, andhalf-unconscious wisdom, which seem to prove that "genius isdivine when young."

Many faults it had, but was so full of promise that it was evidentMac had not "kept good company, read good books, loved goodthings, and cultivated soul and body as faithfully as he could" invain. It all told now, for truth and virtue had blossomed intocharacter and had a language of their own more eloquent than thepoetry to which they were what the fragrance is to the flower.Wiser critics than Rose felt and admired this; less partial onescould not deny their praise to a first effort, which seemed asspontaneous and aspiring as a lark's song; and, when one or two ofthese Jupiters had given a nod of approval, Mac found himself, notexactly famous, but much talked about. One set abused, the otherset praised, and the little book was sadly mauled among them, forit was too original to be ignored, and too robust to be killed byhard usage, so it came out of the fray none the worse but ratherbrighter, if anything, for the friction which proved the goldgenuine.

This took time, however, and Rose could only sit at home readingall the notices she could get, as well as the literary gossip Phebesent her, for Mac seldom wrote, and never a word about himself,so Phebe skillfully extracted from him in their occasional meetingsall the personal news her feminine wit could collect and faithfullyreported it.

It was a little singular that without a word of inquiry on either side,the letters of the girls were principally filled with tidings of theirrespective lovers. Phebe wrote about Mac; Rose answered withminute particulars about Archie; and both added hasty itemsconcerning their own affairs, as if these were of little consequence.

Phebe got the most satisfaction out of the correspondence, for soonafter the book appeared Rose began to want Mac home again andto be rather jealous of the new duties and delights that kept him.She was immensely proud of her poet, and had little jubilees overthe beautiful fulfillment of her prophecies, for even Aunt Plentyowned now with contrition that "the boy was not a fool." Everyword of praise was read aloud on the housetops, so to speak, byhappy Rose; every adverse criticism was hotly disputed; and thewhole family was in a great state of pleasant excitement over thisunexpectedly successful first flight of the Ugly Duckling, nowgenerally considered by his relatives as the most promising youngswan of the flock.

Aunt Jane was particularly funny in her new position of mother toa callow poet and conducted herself like a proud but bewilderedhen when one of her brood takes to the water. She pored over thepoems, trying to appreciate them but quite failing to do so, for lifewas all prose to her, and she vainly tried to discover where Macgot his talent from. It was pretty to see the new respect with whichshe treated his possessions now; the old books were dusted with asort of reverence; scraps of paper were laid carefully by lest someimmortal verse be lost; and a certain shabby velvet jacket fondlysmoothed when no one was by to smile at the maternal pride withfilled her heart and caused her once severe countenance to shinewith unwonted benignity.

Uncle Mac talked about "my son" with ill-concealed satisfaction,and evidently began to feel as if his boy was going to conferdistinction upon the whole race of Campbell, which had alreadypossessed one poet. Steve exulted with irrepressible delight andwent about quoting Songs and Sonnets till he bored his friendsdreadfully by his fraternal raptures.

Archie took it more quietly, and even suggested that it was toosoon to crow yet, for the dear old fellow's first burst might be hislast, since it was impossible to predict what he would do next.Having proved that he could write poetry, he might drop it forsome new world to conquer, quoting his favorite Thoreau, who,having made a perfect pencil, gave up the business and took towriting books with the sort of indelible ink which grows clearerwith time.

The aunts of course had their "views," and enjoyed much propheticgossip as they wagged their caps over many social cups of tea. Theyounger boys thought it "very jolly," and hoped the Don would "goahead and come to glory as soon as possible," which was all thatcould by expected of "Young America," with whom poetry is notusually a passion.

But Dr. Alec was a sight for "sair een," so full of concentratedcontentment was he. No one but Rose, perhaps, knew how proudand pleased the good man felt at this first small success of hisgodson, for he had always had high hopes of the boy, because inspite of his oddities he had such an upright nature, and promisinglittle, did much, with the quiet persistence which foretells a manlycharacter. All the romance of the doctor's heart was stirred by thispoetic bud of promise and the love that made it bloom so early, forMac had confided his hopes to Uncle, finding great consolationand support in his sympathy and advice. Like a wise man, Dr. Alecleft the young people to learn the great lesson in their own way,counseling Mac to work and Rose to wait till both were quitecertain that their love was built on a surer foundation thanadmiration or youthful romance.

Meantime he went about with a well-worn little book in hispocket, humming bits from a new set of songs and repeating withgreat fervor certain sonnets which seemed to him quite equal, ifnot superior, to any that Shakespeare ever wrote. As Rose wasdoing the same thing, they often met for a private "read andwarble," as they called it, and while discussing the safe subject ofMac's poetry, both arrived at a pretty clear idea of what Mac'sreward was to be when he came home.

He seemed in no hurry to do this, however, and continued toastonish his family by going into society and coming out brilliantlyin that line. It takes very little to make a lion, as everyone knowswho has seen what poor specimens are patted and petted everyyear, in spite of their bad manners, foolish vagaries, and veryfeeble roaring. Mac did not want to be lionized and took it ratherscornfully, which only added to the charm that people suddenlydiscovered about the nineteenth cousin of Thomas Campbell, thepoet. He desired to be distinguished in the best sense of the word,as well as to look so, and thought a little of the polish society giveswould not be amiss, remembering Rose's efforts in that line. Forher sake he came out of his shell and went about seeing and testingall sorts of people with those observing eyes of his, which saw somuch in spite of their nearsightedness. What use he meant to makeof these new experiences no one knew, for he wrote short lettersand, when questioned, answered with imperturbable patience:"Wait till I get through; then I'll come home and talk about it."

So everyone waited for the poet, till something happened whichproduced a greater sensation in the family than if all the boys hadsimultaneously taken to rhyming.

Dr. Alec got very impatient and suddenly announced that he wasgoing to L to see after those young people, for Phebe was rapidlysinging herself into public favor with the sweet old ballads whichshe rendered so beautifully that hearers were touched as well asears delighted, and her prospects brightened every month.

"Will you come with me, Rose, and surprise this ambitious pairwho are getting famous so fast they'll forget their homekeepingfriends if we don't remind them of us now and then?" he said whenhe proposed the trip one wild March morning.

"No, thank you, sir I'll stay with Aunty; that is all I'm fit for and Ishould only be in the way among those fine people," answeredRose, snipping away at the plants blooming in the study window.

There was a slight bitterness in her voice and a cloud on her face,which her uncle heard and saw at once, half guessed the meaningof, and could not rest till he had found out.

"Do you think Phebe and Mac would not care to see you?" heasked, putting down a letter in which Mac gave a glowing accountof a concert at which Phebe surpassed herself.

"No, but they must be very busy," began Rose, wishing she hadheld her tongue.

"Then what is the matter?" persisted Dr. Alec.

Rose did not speak for a moment, and decapitated two finegeraniums with a reckless slash of her scissors, as if pent-upvexation of some kind must find a vent. It did in words also, for, asif quite against her will, she exclaimed impetuously: "The truth is,I'm jealous of them both!"

"Bless my soul! What now?" ejaculated the doctor in greatsurprise.

Rose put down her water pot and shears, came and stood beforehim with her hands nervously twisted together, and said, just asshe used to do when she was a little girl confessing some misdeed:"Uncle, I must tell you, for I've been getting very envious,discontented, and bad lately. No, don't be good to me yet, for youdon't know how little I deserve it. Scold me well, and make me seehow wicked I am."

"I will as soon as I know what I am to scold about. Unburdenyourself, child, and let me see all your iniquity, for if you begin bybeing jealous of Mac and Phebe, I'm prepared for anything," saidDr. Alec, leaning back as if nothing could surprise him now.

"But I am not jealous in that way, sir. I mean I want to be or dosomething splendid as well as they. I can't write poetry or sing likea bird, but I should think I might have my share of glory in someway. I thought perhaps I could paint, and I've tried, but I can onlycopy I've no power to invent lovely things, and I'm so discouraged,for that is my one accomplishment. Do you think I have any giftthat could be cultivated and do me credit like theirs?" she asked sowistfully that her uncle felt for a moment as if he never couldforgive the fairies who endow babies in their cradles for being soniggardly to his girl. But one look into the sweet, open face beforehim reminded him that the good elves had been very generous andhe answered cheerfully: "Yes, I do, for you have one of the bestand noblest gifts a woman can possess. Music and poetry are finethings, and I don't wonder you want them, or that you envy thepleasant fame they bring. I've felt just so, and been ready to askwhy it didn't please heaven to be more generous to some people, soyou needn't be ashamed to tell me all about it."

"I know I ought to be contented, but I'm not. My life is verycomfortable, but so quiet and uneventful, I get tired of it and wantto launch out as the others have, and do something, or at least try.I'm glad you think it isn't very bad of me, and I'd like to know whatmy gift is," said Rose, looking less despondent already.

"The art of living for others so patiently and sweetly that we enjoyit as we do the sunshine, and are not half grateful enough for thegreat blessing."

"It is very kind of you to say so, but I think I'd like a little fun andfame nevertheless." And Rose did not look as thankful as sheought.

"Very natural, dear, but the fun and the fame do not last, while thememory of a real helper is kept green long after poetry is forgottenand music silent. Can't you believe that, and be happy?"

"But I do so little, nobody sees or cares, and I don't feel as if I wasreally of any use," sighed Rose, thinking of the long, dull winter,full of efforts that seemed fruitless.

"Sit here, and let us see if you really do very little and if no onecares." And, drawing her to his knee, Dr. Alec went on, telling offeach item on one of the fingers of the soft hand he held.

"First, an infirm old aunt is kept very happy by the patient, cheerfulcare of this good-for-nothing niece. Secondly, a crotchety uncle,for whom she reads, runs, writes, and sews so willingly that hecannot get on without her. Thirdly, various relations who arehelped in various ways. Fourthly, one dear friend never forgotten,and a certain cousin cheered by praise which is more to him thanthe loudest blast Fame could blow. Fifthly, several young girls findher an example of many good works and ways. Sixthly, amotherless baby is cared for as tenderly as if she were a littlesister. Seventhly, half a dozen poor ladies made comfortable; and,lastly, some struggling boys and girls with artistic longings are putinto a pleasant room furnished with casts, studies, easels, and allmanner of helpful things, not to mention free lessons given by thissame idle girl, who now sits upon my knee owning to herself thather gift is worth having after all."

"Indeed, I am! Uncle, I'd no idea I had done so many things toplease you, or that anyone guessed how hard I try to fill my placeusefully. I've learned to do without gratitude now I'll learn not tocare for praise, but to be contented to do my best, and have onlyGod know."

"He knows, and He rewards in His own good time. I think a quietlife like this often makes itself felt in better ways than one that theworld sees and applauds, and some of the noblest are never knowntill they end, leaving a void in many hearts. Yours may be one ofthese if you choose to make it so, and no one will be prouder ofthis success than I, unless it be Mac."

The clouds were quite gone now, and Rose was looking straightinto her uncle's face with a much happier expression when that lastword made it color brightly and the eyes glance away for a second.Then they came back full of a tender sort of resolution as she said:"That will be the reward I work for," and rose, as if ready to be upand doing with renewed courage.

But her uncle held her long enough to ask quite soberly, though hiseyes laughed: "Shall I tell him that?"

"No, sir, please don't! When he is tired of other people's praise, hewill come home, and then I'll see what I can do for him," answeredRose, slipping away to her work with the shy, happy look thatsometimes came to give to her face the charm it needed.

"He is such a thorough fellow, he never is in a hurry to go fromone thing to another. An excellent habit, but a trifle trying toimpatient people like me," said the doctor and, picking up Dulce,who sat upon the rug with her dolly, he composed his feelings bytossing her till she crowed with delight.

Rose heartily echoed that last remark, but said nothing aloud, onlyhelped her uncle off with dutiful alacrity and, when he was gone,began to count the days till his return, wishing she had decided togo too.

He wrote often, giving excellent accounts of the "great creatures,"as Steve called Phebe and Mac, and seemed to find so much to doin various ways that the second week of absence was nearly overbefore he set a day for his return, promising to astonish them withthe account of his adventures.

Rose felt as if something splendid was going to happen and set heraffairs in order so that the approaching crisis might find her fullyprepared. She had "found out" now, was quite sure, and put awayall doubts and fears to be ready to welcome home the cousinwhom she was sure Uncle would bring as her reward. She wasthinking of this one day as she got out her paper to write a longletter to poor Aunt Clara, who pined for news far away there inCalcutta.

Something in the task reminded her of that other lover whosewooing ended so tragically, and opening a little drawer ofkeepsakes, she took out the blue bracelet, feeling that she owedCharlie a tender thought in the midst of her new happiness, for oflate she had forgotten him.

She had worn the trinket hidden under her black sleeve for a longtime after his death, with the regretful constancy one sometimesshows in doing some little kindness all too late. But her arm hadgrown too round to hide the ornament, the forget-me-nots hadfallen one by one, the clasp had broken, and that autumn she laidthe bracelet away, acknowledging that she had outgrown thesouvenir as well as the sentiment that gave it.

She looked at it in silence for a moment, then put it softly backand, shutting the drawer, took up the little gray book which washer pride, thinking as she contrasted the two men and theirinfluence on her life the one sad and disturbing, the other sweetand inspiring "Charlie's was passion Mac's is love."

"Rose! Rose!" called a shrill voice, rudely breaking the pensivereverie, and with a start, she shut the desk, exclaiming as she ranto the door: "They have come! They have come!"