Rose turned around as he entered and, putting down the little girl, went to him with the evening red shining on her happy face as she said gratefully: “Dear Mac, it was so lovely! I don't know how to thank you for it in any way but this.” And, drawing down his tall head, she gave him the birthday kiss she had given all the others. But this time it produced a singular effect, for Mac turned scarlet, then grew pale, and when Rose added playfully, thinking to relieve the shyness of so young a poet, “Never again say you don't write poetry, or call your verses rubbish I knew you were a genius, and now I'm sure of it,” he broke out, as if against his will: “No. It isn't genius, it is love!” Then, as she shrank a little, startled at his energy, he added, with an effort at self-control which made his voice sound strange: “I didn't mean to speak, but I can't suffer you to deceive yourself so. I must tell the truth, and not let you kiss me like a cousin when I love you with all my heart and soul!” “Oh, Mac, don't joke!” cried Rose, bewildered by this sudden glimpse into a heart she thought she knew so well. “I'm in solemn earnest,” he answered steadily, in such a quiet tone that, but for the pale excitement of his face, she might have doubted his words. “Be angry, if you will. I expect it, for I know it is too soon to speak. I ought to wait for years, perhaps, but you seemed so happy I dared to hope you had forgotten.” “Forgotten what?” asked Rose sharply. “Charlie.” “Ah! You all will insist on believing that I loved him better than I did!” she cried, with both pain and impatience in her voice, for the family delusion tried her very much at times. “How could we help it, when he was everything women most admire?” said Mac, not bitterly, but as if he sometimes wondered at their want of insight. “I do not admire weakness of any sort I could never love without either confidence or respect. Do me the justice to believe that, for I'm tired of being pitied.” She spoke almost passionately, being more excited by Mac's repressed emotion than she had ever been by Charlie's most touching demonstration, though she did not know why. “But he loved you so!” began Mac, feeling as if a barrier had suddenly gone down but not daring to venture in as yet. “That was the hard part of it! That was why I tried to love him, why I hoped he would stand fast for my sake, if not for his own, and why I found it so sad sometimes not to be able to help despising him for his want of courage. I don't know how others feel, but, to me, love isn't all. I must look up, not down, trust and honor with my whole heart, and find strength and integrity to lean on. I have had it so far, and I know I could not live without it.” “Your ideal is a high one. Do you hope to find it, Rose?” Mac asked, feeling, with the humility of a genuine love, that he could not give her all she desired.