Rose subsided into her former seat, surveying her cousin with much satisfaction as she said: “This is the third surprise I've had since I came. Uncle popped in upon us first, then Phebe, and now you. Have you had a pleasant tramp? Uncle said you were off.” “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.