l pleased with his task, Mac laid himself comfortably on the
grass and, leaning his head on his hand, read the lovely story as only
one could who entered fully into the spirit of it. Rose watched him
closely and saw how his face brightened over some quaint fancy, delicate
description, or delicious word; heard how smoothly the melodious
measures fell from his lips, and read something more than admiration in
his eyes as he looked up now and then to mark if she enjoyed it as much
as he.

She could not help enjoying it, for the poet's pen painted as well as
wrote, and the little romance lived before her, but she was not thinking
of John Keats as she listened; she was wondering if this cousin was
a kindred spirit, born to make such music and leave as sweet an echo
behind him. It seemed as if it might be; and, after going through the
rough caterpillar and the pent-up chrysalis changes, the beautiful
butterfly would appear to astonish and delight them all. So full of
this fancy was she that she never thanked him when the story ended but,
leaning forward, asked in a tone that made him start and look as if he
had fallen from the clouds: "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 not to
tell."

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

Much discomfited, Mac gave poor Keats a fling and, leaning on both
elbows, tried to hide his face for it had reddened like that of a modest
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 great scorn.

"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 every fellow
scribbles a little jingle when he is lazy or in love, you know,"
explained Mac, looking very guilty.

Rose could not quite understand the change she saw in him till his last
words suggested a cause which she knew by experience was apt to inspire
young men. Leaning forward again, she asked solemnly, though her eyes
danced with fun, "Mac, are you in love?"

"Do I look like it?" And he sat up with such an injured and indignant
face that she apologized at once, for he certainly did not look
loverlike with hayseed in his hair, several lively cr