often
said.

"She's worth all those racketing fellows put together," Mac would add,
fumbling about to discover if the little chair was ready for her coming.

That was the sort of reward Rose liked, the thanks that cheered her;
and whenever she grew very tired, one look at the green shade, the curly
head so restless on the pillow, and the poor groping hands, touched her
tender heart and put new spirit into the weary voice.

She did not know how much she was learning, both from the books she read
and the daily sacrifices she made. Stories and poetry were her delight,
but Mac did not care for them; and since his favourite Greeks and Romans
were forbidden, he satisfied himself with travels, biographies, and the
history of great inventions or discoveries. Rose despised this taste
at first, but soon got interested in Livingstone's adventures, Hobson's
stirring life in India, and the brave trials and triumphs of Watt and
Arkwright, Fulton, and "Palissy, the Potter." The true, strong books
helped the dreamy girl; her faithful service and sweet patience touched
and won the boy; and long afterward both learned to see how useful those
seemingly hard and weary hours had been to them.

One bright morning, as Rose sat down to begin a fat volume entitled
"History of the French Revolution," expecting to come to great grief
over the long names, Mac, who was lumbering about the room like a blind
bear, stopped her by asking abruptly,

"What day of the month is it?"

"The seventh of August, I believe."

"More than half my vacation gone, and I've only had a week of it! I call
that hard," and he groaned dismally.

"So it is; but there is more to come, and you may be able to enjoy
that."

"May be able! I will be able! Does that old noodle think I'm going to
stay stived up here much longer?"

"I guess he does, unless your eyes get on faster than they have yet."

"Has he said anything more lately?"

"I haven't seen him, you know. Shall I begin? this looks rather nice."

"Read away; it's all one to me." And Mac cast himself down upon the old
lounge, where his heavy head felt easiest.

Rose began with great spirit, and kept on gallantly for a couple
of chapters, getting over the unpronounceable names with unexpected
success, she thought, for her listener did not correct her once, and lay
so still she fancied he was deeply interested. All of a sudden she was
arrested in the middle of a fine paragraph by Mac, who sat bolt upright,