"Wise people say we must carry our sunshine with us," answered Rose, taking refuge in commonplaces; for the face at the window grew pensive suddenly, as he answered, with a longing look,-- "I wish I could:" then, smiling gratefully, he added, "Thank you for giving me a little of yours." "You are very welcome." And Rose offered him her hand, while her eyes mutely asked pardon for withholding her leave to keep it. He pressed it silently, and, shouldering the umbrella which he forgot to open, turned away, with an "up-again-and-take-another" expression, which caused the soft eyes to follow him admiringly. "I ought not to have kept him a minute longer than I could help: for it wasn't all pity; it was my foolish wish to show off and do as I liked for a minute, to pay for being good about the gown. Oh me! how weak and silly I am in spite of all my trying!" And Miss Campbell fell into a remorseful reverie, which lasted till she got home. "Now, young man, what brought you out in this driving storm?" asked Rose, as Jamie came stamping in that same afternoon. "Mamma sent you a new book,--thought you'd like it: _I_ don't mind your old storms!" replied the boy, wrestling his way out of his coat, and presenting a face as round and red and shiny as a well-polished Baldwin apple. "Much obliged: it is just the day to enjoy it, and I was longing for something nice to read," said Rose, as Jamie sat down upon the lower stair for a protracted struggle with his rubber boots. "Here you are, then--no--yes--I do believe I've forgotten it, after all!" cried Jamie, slapping his pockets one after the other, with a dismayed expression of countenance. "Never mind: I'll hunt up something else. Let me help with those: your hands are so cold." And Rose, good-naturedly gave a tug at the boots, while Jamie clutched the banisters; murmuring somewhat incoherently, as his legs flew up and down,-- "I'll go back if you want me to. I'm so sorry! It's very good of you, I'm sure. Getting these horrid things on made me forget. Mother would make me wear 'em, though I told her they'd stick like--like gumdrops," he added, inspired by recollections of certain dire disappointments when the above-mentioned sweetmeat melted in his pockets, and refused to come out. "Now what shall we do?" asked Rose, when he was finally extricated. "Since I've nothing to read, I may as well play." "I'll teach you to pitch and toss. You catch very well for a girl, but you can't throw worth a cent," replied Jamie, gambading down the hall in his slippers, and producing a ball from some of the mysterious receptacles in which boys have the art of storing rubbish enough to fill a peck measure. Of course Rose agreed, and cheerfully risked getting her eyes blackened and her fingers bruised, till her young preceptor gratefully observed that "it was no fun playing where you had to look out for windows and jars and things; so I'd like that jolly book about Captain Nemo and the 'Nautilus,' please."