"If that is not genius, I should like to know what it is?" said one
young man to another as they went out just before the general crush at
the end.

"Some genius and a great deal of love. They are a grand team, and,
when well driven, astonish the world by the time they make in the great
race," answered the second young man with the look of one inclined to
try his hand at driving that immortal span.

"Daresay you are right. Can't stop now she's waiting for me. Don't sit
up, Mac."

"The gods go with you, Archie."

And the cousins separated one to write till midnight, the other to bid
his Phebe good-bye, little dreaming how unexpectedly and successfully
she was to earn her welcome home.

Chapter 20 WHAT MAC DID

Rose, meantime, was trying to find out what the sentiment was with
which she regarded her cousin Mac. She could not seem to reconcile the
character she had known so long with the new one lately shown her, and
the idea of loving the droll, bookish, absentminded Mac of former times
appeared quite impossible and absurd, but the new Mac, wide awake, full
of talent, ardent and high-handed, was such a surprise to her, she felt
as if her heart was being won by a stranger, and it became her to study
him well before yielding to a charm which she could not deny.

Affection came naturally, and had always been strong for the boy; regard
for the studious youth easily deepened to respect for the integrity of
the young man, and now something warmer was growing up within her; but
at first she could not decide whether it was admiration for the rapid
unfolding of talent of some sort or love answering to love.

As if to settle that point, Mac sent her on New Year's Day a little book
plainly bound and modestly entitled Songs and Sonnets. After reading
this with ever-growing surprise and delight, Rose never had another
doubt about the writer's being a poet, for though she was no critic, she
had read the best authors and knew what was good. Unpretentious as it
was, this had the true ring, and its very simplicity showed conscious
power for, unlike so many first attempts, the book was not full of "My
Lady," neither did it indulge in Swinburnian convulsions about

"The lilies and languors of peace,
The roses and raptures of love.";

or contain any of the highly colored medieval word pictures so much
in vogue. "My book should smell of pines, and resound with the hum of
insects," might have been its motto, so sweet