te, and I'll look in
the glass, for I'd like to see if it is becoming," said Rose merrily as
she sorted her gay worsteds.

"Your feet in the full-grown grasses,
Moved soft as a soft wind blows;
You passed me as April passes,
With a face made out of a rose,"

murmured Mac under his breath, thinking of the white figure going up
a green slope one summer day; then, as if chiding himself for
sentimentality, he set Psyche down with great care and began to talk
about a course of solid reading for the winter.

After that, Rose saw very little of him for several weeks, as he seemed
to be making up for lost time and was more odd and absent than ever when
he did appear.

As she became accustomed to the change in his external appearance,
she discovered that he was altering fast in other ways and watched the
"distinguished-looking gentleman" with much interest, saying to herself,
when she saw a new sort of dignity about him alternating with an unusual
restlessness of manner, and now and then a touch of sentiment, "Genius
is simmering, just as I predicted."

As the family were in mourning, there were no festivities on Rose's
twenty-first birthday, though the boys had planned all sorts of
rejoicings. Everyone felt particularly tender toward their girl on that
day, remembering how "poor Charlie" had loved her, and they tried
to show it in the gifts and good wishes they sent her. She found her
sanctum all aglow with autumn leaves, and on her table so many rare and
pretty things, she quite forgot she was an heiress and only felt how
rich she was in loving friends.

One gift greatly pleased her, though she could not help smiling at the
source from whence it came, for Mac sent her a Cupid not the chubby
child with a face of naughty merriment, but a slender, winged youth
leaning on his unstrung bow, with a broken arrow at his feet. A poem,
"To Psyche," came with it, and Rose was much surprised at the beauty of
the lines, for, instead of being witty, complimentary, or gay, there was
something nobler than mere sentiment in them, and the sweet old fable
lived again in language which fitly painted the maiden Soul looking for
a Love worthy to possess it.

Rose read them over and over as she sat among the gold and scarlet
leaves which glorified her little room, and each time found new depth
and beauty in them, looking from the words that made music in her ear to
the lovely shapes that spoke with their mute grace to her e