"Delightful! I feel as if I'd been in heaven, or near it, for about three weeks, and thought I'd break the shock of coming down to the earth by calling here on my way home.""You look as if heaven suited you.Brown as a berry, but so fresh and happy I should never guess you had been scrambling down a mountain," said Rose, trying to discover why he looked so well in spite of the blue flannel suit and dusty shoes, for there was a certain sylvan freshness about him as he sat there full of reposeful strength the hills seemed to have given, the wholesome cheerful days of air and sunshine put into a man, and the clear, bright look of one who had caught glimpses of a new world from the mountaintop.
"Tramping agrees with me.I took a dip in the river as I came along and made my toilet in a place where Milton's Sabrina might have lived,"he said, shaking back his damp hair and settling the knot of scarlet bunchberries stuck in his buttonhole.
"You look as if you found the nymph at home," said Rose, knowing how much he liked the " Comus.""I found her here ," and he made a little bow.
"That's very pretty, and I'll give you one in return.You grow more like Uncle Alec every day, and I think I'll call you Alec, Jr.""Alexander the Great wouldn't thank you for that," and Mac did not look as grateful as she had expected.
"Very like, indeed, except the forehead.His is broad and benevolent, yours high and arched.Do you know if you had no beard, and wore your hair long, I really think you'd look like Milton," added Rose, sure that would please him.
It certainly did amuse him, for he lay back on the hay and laughed so heartily that his merriment scared the squirrel on the wall and woke Dulce.
"You ungrateful boy! Will nothing suit you? When I say you look like the best man I know, you gave a shrug, and when I liken you to a great poet, you shout.I'm afraid you are very conceited, Mac." And Rose laughed, too, glad to see him so gay.
"If I am, it is your fault.Nothing I can do will ever make a Milton of me, unless I go blind someday," he said, sobering at the thought.
"You once said a man could be what he liked if he tried hard enough, so why shouldn't you be a poet?" asked Rose, liking to trip him up with his own words, as he often did her.
"I thought I was to be an M.D."
"You might be both.There have been poetical doctors, you know.""Would you like me to be such a one?" asked Mac, looking at her as seriously as if he really thought of trying it.
"No.I'd rather have you one or the other.I don't care which, only you must be famous in either you choose.I'm very ambitious for you, because, I insist upon it, you are a genius of some sort.I think it is beginning to simmer already, and I've got a great curiosity to know what it will turn out to be."Mac's eyes shone as she said that, but before he could speak a little voice said, "Aunty Wose!" and he turned to find Dulce sitting up in her nest staring at the broad blue back before her with round eyes.
"Do you know your Don?" he asked, offering his hand with respectful gentleness, for she seemed a little doubtful whether he was a friend or stranger.
"It is 'Mat,' " said Rose, and that familiar word seemed to reassure the child at once, for, leaning forward, she kissed him as if quite used to doing it.
"I picked up some toys for her, by the way, and she shall have them at once to pay for that.I didn't expect to be so graciously received by this shy mouse," said Mac, much gratified, for Dulce was very chary of her favors.
"She knew you, for I always carry my home album with me, and when she comes to your picture she always kisses it, because I never want her to forget her first friend," explained Rose, pleased with her pupil.
"First, but not best," answered Mac, rummaging in his knapsack for the promised toys, which he set forth upon the hay before delighted Dulce.
Neither picture books nor sweeties, but berries strung on long stems of grass, acorns, and pretty cones, bits of rock shining with mica, several bluebirds' feathers, and a nest of moss with white pebbles for eggs.
"Dearest Nature, strong and kind" knows what children love, and has plenty of such playthings ready for them all, if one only knows how to find them.These were received with rapture.And leaving the little creature to enjoy them in her own quiet way, Mac began to tumble the things back into his knapsack again.Two or three books lay near Rose, and she took up one which opened at a place marked by a scribbled paper.
"Keats? I didn't know you condescended to read anything so modern,"she said, moving the paper to see the page beneath.
Mac looked up, snatched the book out of her hand, and shook down several more scraps, then returned it with a curiously shamefaced expression, saying, as he crammed the papers into his pocket, "I beg pardon, but it was full of rubbish.Oh, yes! I'm fond of Keats.Don't you know him?""I used to read him a good deal, but Uncle found me crying over the ' Pot of Basil ' and advised me to read less poetry for a while or I should get too sentimental," answered Rose, turning the pages without seeing them, for a new idea had just popped into her head.
" ' The Eve of St.Agnes ' is the most perfect love story in the world, I think,"said Mac, enthusiastically.
"Read it to me.I feel just like hearing poetry, and you will do it justice if you are fond of it," said Rose, handing him the book with an innocent air.
"Nothing I'd like better, but it is rather long.""I'll tell you to stop if I get tired.Baby won't interrupt; she will be contented for an hour with those pretty things."As if well pleased with his task, Mac laid himself comfortably on the grass and, leaning his head on his hand, read the lovely story as only one could who entered fully into the spirit of it.Rose watched him closely and saw how his face brightened over some quaint fancy, delicate description, or delicious word; heard how smoothly the melodious measures fell from his lips, and read something more than admiration in his eyes as he looked up now and then to mark if she enjoyed it as much as he.
