ould reply in a tone of grateful humility
that showed how much her heart was touched: "How can I help it, when
they are all so kind to me? Any pride would melt away under such praise
and thanks and loving wishes as I've had today, for every member of the
family has taken pains to welcome me, to express far too much gratitude,
and to beg me to be one of you. I needed very little urging, but when
Archie's father and mother came and called me 'daughter,' I would have
promised anything to show my love for them."

"And him," added Rose, but Archie seemed quite satisfied and kissed the
hand he held as if it had been that of a beloved princess while he said
with all the pride Phebe seemed to have lost: "Think what she gives up
for me fame and fortune and the admiration of many a better man. You
don't know what a splendid prospect she has of becoming one of the sweet
singers who are loved and honored everywhere, and all this she puts away
for my sake, content to sing for me alone, with no reward but love."

"I am so glad to make a little sacrifice for a great happiness I never
shall regret it or think my music lost if it makes home cheerful for my
mate. Birds sing sweetest in their own nests, you know." And Phebe bent
toward him with a look and gesture which plainly showed how willingly
she offered up all ambitious hopes upon the altar of a woman's happy
love.

Both seemed to forget that they were not alone, and in a moment they
were, for a sudden impulse carried Rose to the door of her sanctum, as
if the south wind which seemed to have set in was wafting this little
ship also toward the Islands of the Blessed, where the others were
safely anchored now.

The room was a blaze of sunshine and a bower of spring freshness and
fragrance, for here Rose had let her fancy have free play, and each
garland, fern, and flower had its meaning. Mac seemed to have been
reading this sweet language of symbols, to have guessed why Charlie's
little picture was framed in white roses, why pansies hung about his
own, why Psyche was half hidden among feathery sprays of maidenhair, and
a purple passion flower lay at Cupid's feet. The last fancy evidently
pleased him, for he was smiling over it, and humming to himself as if
to beguile his patient waiting, the burden of the air Rose had so often
sung to him:

"Bonny lassie, will ye gang, will ye gang To the birks of Aberfeldie?"

"Yes, Mac, anywhere!"

He had not heard her enter, and wheeling ar