ye. The whole
thing suited her exactly, it was so delicate and perfect in its way,
for she was tired of costly gifts and valued very much this proof of
her cousin's taste and talent, seeing nothing in it but an affectionate
desire to please her.

All the rest dropped in at intervals through the day to say a loving
word, and last of all came Mac. Rose happened to be alone with Dulce,
enjoying a splendid sunset from her western window, for October gave her
child a beautiful good night.

Rose turned around as he entered and, putting down the little girl,
went to him with the evening red shining on her happy face as she said
gratefully: "Dear Mac, it was so lovely! I don't know how to thank you
for it in any way but this." And, drawing down his tall head, she gave
him the birthday kiss she had given all the others.

But this time it produced a singular effect, for Mac turned scarlet,
then grew pale, and when Rose added playfully, thinking to relieve the
shyness of so young a poet, "Never again say you don't write poetry, or
call your verses rubbish I knew you were a genius, and now I'm sure of
it," he broke out, as if against his will: "No. It isn't genius, it is
love!" Then, as she shrank a little, startled at his energy, he added,
with an effort at self-control which made his voice sound strange: "I
didn't mean to speak, but I can't suffer you to deceive yourself so. I
must tell the truth, and not let you kiss me like a cousin when I love
you with all my heart and soul!"

"Oh, Mac, don't joke!" cried Rose, bewildered by this sudden glimpse
into a heart she thought she knew so well.

"I'm in solemn earnest," he answered steadily, in such a quiet tone
that, but for the pale excitement of his face, she might have doubted
his words. "Be angry, if you will. I expect it, for I know it is too
soon to speak. I ought to wait for years, perhaps, but you seemed so
happy I dared to hope you had forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" asked Rose sharply.

"Charlie."

"Ah! You all will insist on believing that I loved him better than I
did!" she cried, with both pain and impatience in her voice, for the
family delusion tried her very much at times.

"How could we help it, when he was everything women most admire?" said
Mac, not bitterly, but as if he sometimes wondered at their want of
insight.

"I do not admire weakness of any sort I could never love without either
confidence or respect. Do me the justice to believe that, for I'm