ting and being pelted
with green apples as Jamie vainly endeavored to get at him. The siege
ended when Aunt Jessie appeared, and the rest of the afternoon was spent
in chat about home affairs.

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

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

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

"Are you never lonely?"

"Never. I take my best friends along, you know," and he gave a slap 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 little
goes a great way, as you will soon discover," he answered, tapping his
head.

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

"Read away, and digest it well, then write and tell me what you think of
it. Will you?" he asked as they paused where the four roads 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 stood bareheaded in the shadows of
the leaves playing over his fine forehead, she remembered the chat among
the haycocks, and he did not look at all like an M.D.

"I'll make time."

"Good-bye, Milton."

"Good-bye, Sabrina."

Chapter 18 WHICH WAS IT?

Rose did read and digest, and found her days much richer for the
good company she kept, for an introduction to so much that was wise,
beautiful, and true could not but make that month a memorable one. It
is not strange that while the young man most admired "Heroism" and
"Self-Reliance," the girl preferred "Love" and "Friendship," reading
them over and over like prose poems, as they are, to the fitting
accompaniment of sunshine, solitude, and sympathy, for letters went to
and fro with praiseworthy regularity.

Rose much enjoyed this correspondence, and found herself regretting that
it was at an end when she went home in September, for Mac wrote better
than he talked, though he could do that remarkably well when he chose.
But she had no chance to express either pleasure or regret, for
the first time she saw him