"I thought so! Did he say I should be able to go to school when it begins?" "No, Mac," very low. "Ah!" That was all, but Rose saw her cousin set his lips together and take a long breath, as if she had hit him hard. He bore the disappointment bravely, however, and asked quite steadily in a minute,-- "How soon does he think I _can_ study again?" It was so hard to answer that! Yet Rose knew she must, for Aunt Jane had declared she _could_ not do it, and Uncle Mac had begged her to break the truth to the poor lad. "Not for a good many months." "How many?" he asked with a pathetic sort of gruffness. "A year, perhaps." "A whole year! Why, I expected to be ready for college by that time." And, pushing up the shade, Mac stared at her with startled eyes, that soon blinked and fell before the one ray of light. "Plenty of time for that; you must be patient now, and get them thoroughly well, or they will trouble you again when it will be harder to spare them," she said, with tears in her own eyes. "I won't do it! I _will_ study and get through somehow. It's all humbug about taking care so long. These doctors like to keep hold of a fellow if they can. But I won't stand it,--I vow I won't!" and he banged his fist down on the unoffending pillow as if he were pommelling the hard-hearted doctor. "Now, Mac, listen to me," Rose said very earnestly, though her voice shook a little and her heart ached. "You know you have hurt your eyes reading by firelight and in the dusk, and sitting up late, and now you'll have to pay for it; the doctor said so. You _must_ be careful, and do as he tells you, or you will be--blind." "No!" "Yes, it is true, and he wanted us to tell you that nothing but entire rest would cure you. I know it's dreadfully hard, but we'll all help you; I'll read all day long, and lead you, and wait upon you, and try to make it easier--" She stopped there, for it was evident that he did not hear a sound; the word "blind" seemed to have knocked him down, for he had buried his face in the pillow, and lay so still that Rose was frightened. She sat motionless for many minutes, longing to comfort him, but not knowing how, and wishing Uncle Alec would come, for he had promised to tell Mac. Presently, a sort of choking sound came out of the pillow, and went straight to her heart,--the most pathetic sob she ever heard, for, though it was the most natural means of relief, the poor fellow must not indulge in it because of the afflicted eyes. The "French Revolution" tumbled out of her lap, and, running to the sofa, she knelt down by it, saying, with the motherly sort of tenderness girls feel for any sorrowing creature,-- "Oh, my dear, you mustn't cry! It is so bad for your poor eyes. Take your head out of that hot pillow, and let me cool it. I don't wonder you feel so, but please don't cry. I'll cry for you; it won't hurt _me_." [Illustration: "RUNNING TO THE SOFA, SHE KNELT DOWN BY IT."]