“Homer was blind, and so was Milton, and they did something to be remembered by, in spite of it,” he said, as if to himself, in a solemn tone, for even the blue goggles did not bring a smile. “Papa had a picture of Milton and his daughters writing for him. It was a very sweet picture, I thought,” observed Rose in a serious voice, trying to meet the sufferer on his own ground. “Perhaps I could study if someone read and did the eye part. Do you suppose I could, by and by?” he asked, with a sudden ray of hope. “I dare say, if your head is strong enough. This sunstroke, you know, is what upset you, and your brain needs rest, the doctor says.” “I'll have a talk with the old fellow next time he comes, and find out just what I may do; then I shall know where I am. What a fool I was that day to be stewing my brains and letting the sun glare on my book till the letters danced before me! I see 'em now when I shut my eyes; black balls bobbing round, and stars and all sorts of queer things. Wonder if all blind people do?” “Don't think about them; I'll go on reading, shall I? We shall come to the exciting part soon, and then you'll forget all this,” suggested Rose. “No, I never shall forget. Hang the old 'Revolution'! I don't want to hear another word of it. My head aches, and I'm hot. Oh, wouldn't I like to go for a pull in the 'Stormy Petrel!”' and poor Mac tossed about as if he did not know what to do with himself. “Let me sing, and perhaps you'll drop off; then the day will seem shorter,” said Rose, taking up a fan and sitting down beside him. “Perhaps I shall; I didn't sleep much last night, and when I did I dreamed like fun. See here, you tell the people that I know, and it's all right, and I don't want them to talk about it or howl over me. That's all; now drone away, and I'll try to sleep. Wish I could for a year, and wake up cured.” “Oh, I wish, I wish you could!” Rose said it so fervently that Mac was moved to grope for her apron and hold on to a corner of it, as if it was comfortable to feel her near him. But all he said was, “You are a good little soul, Rosy. Give us 'The Birks'; that is a drowsy one that always sends me off.” Quite contented with this small return for all her sympathy, Rose waved her fan and sang, in a dreamy tone, the pretty Scotch air, the burden of which is, “Bonny lassie, will ye gang, will ye gang To the Birks of Aberfeldie?” Whether the lassie went or not I cannot say, but the laddie was off to the land of Nod, in about ten minutes, quite worn out with hearing the bad tidings and the effort to bear them manfully. Chapter 12--“The Other Fellows”