and wholesome was it with
a springlike sort of freshness which plainly betrayed that the author
had learned some of Nature's deepest secrets and possessed the skill to
tell them in tuneful words. The songs went ringing through one's memory
long after they were read, and the sonnets were full of the subtle
beauty, insight, and half-unconscious wisdom, which seem to prove that
"genius is divine when young."

Many faults it had, but was so full of promise that it was evident Mac
had not "kept good company, read good books, loved good things, and
cultivated soul and body as faithfully as he could" in vain. It all
told now, for truth and virtue had blossomed into character and had a
language of their own more eloquent than the poetry to which they were
what the fragrance is to the flower. Wiser critics than Rose felt and
admired this; less partial ones could not deny their praise to a first
effort, which seemed as spontaneous and aspiring as a lark's song; and,
when one or two of these Jupiters had given a nod of approval, Mac found
himself, not exactly famous, but much talked about. One set abused, the
other set praised, and the little book was sadly mauled among them, for
it was too original to be ignored, and too robust to be killed by hard
usage, so it came out of the fray none the worse but rather brighter, if
anything, for the friction which proved the gold genuine.

This took time, however, and Rose could only sit at home reading all the
notices she could get, as well as the literary gossip Phebe sent
her, for Mac seldom wrote, and never a word about himself, so Phebe
skillfully extracted from him in their occasional meetings all the
personal news her feminine wit could collect and faithfully reported it.

It was a little singular that without a word of inquiry on either side,
the letters of the girls were principally filled with tidings of their
respective lovers. Phebe wrote about Mac; Rose answered with minute
particulars about Archie; and both added hasty items concerning their
own affairs, as if these were of little consequence.

Phebe got the most satisfaction out of the correspondence, for soon
after the book appeared Rose began to want Mac home again and to be
rather jealous of the new duties and delights that kept him. She was
immensely proud of her poet, and had little jubilees over the beautiful
fulfillment of her prophecies, for even Aunt Plenty owned now with
contrition that "the boy was not a fool." E