iliar word seemed to reassure the
child at once, for, leaning forward, she kissed him as if quite used to
doing it.

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

"She knew you, for I always carry my home album with me, and when she
comes to your picture she always kisses it, because I never want her to
forget her first friend," explained Rose, pleased with her pupil.

"First, but not best," answered Mac, rummaging in his knapsack for the
promised toys, which he set forth upon the hay before delighted Dulce.

Neither picture books nor sweeties, but berries strung on long stems of
grass, acorns, and pretty cones, bits of rock shining with mica, several
bluebirds' feathers, and a nest of moss with white pebbles for eggs.

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

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

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

"I used to read him a good deal, but Uncle found me crying over the 'Pot
of Basil' and advised me to read less poetry for a while or I should get
too sentimental," answered Rose, turning the pages without 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 it
justice if you are fond of it," said Rose, handing him the book with an
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 be
contented for an hour with those pretty things."

As if wel