Mac's eyes shone as she said that, but before he could speak a little voice said, "Aunty Wose!" and he turned to find Dulce sitting up in her nest, staring at the broad blue back before her with round eyes. "Do you know your Don?" he asked, offering his hand with respectful gentleness; for she seemed a little doubtful whether he was friend or stranger. "It is 'Mat,'" said Rose, and that familiar word seemed to reassure the child at once; for, leaning forward, she kissed him as if quite used to doing it. "I picked up some toys for her by the way, and she shall have them at once to pay for that. I didn't expect to be so graciously received by this shy mouse," said Mac, much gratified; for Dulce was very chary of her favors. "She knew you; for I always carry my home-album with me and when she comes to your picture she always kisses it, because I never want her to forget her first friend," explained Rose, pleased with her pupil. "First, but not best," answered Mac, rummaging in his knapsack for the promised toys, which he set forth upon the hay before delighted Dulce. Neither picture-books nor sweeties; but berries strung on long stems of grass, acorns and pretty cones, bits of rock shining with mica, several bluebirds' feathers, and a nest of moss with white pebbles for eggs. "Dearest Nature, strong and kind," knows what children love, and has plenty of such playthings ready for them all, if one only knows how to find them. These were received with rapture; and, leaving the little creature to enjoy them in her own quiet way, Mac began to tumble the things back into his knapsack again. Two or three books lay near Rose, and she took up one which opened at a place marked by a scribbled paper. "Keats? I didn't know you condescended to read any thing so modern," she said, moving the paper to see the page beneath. Mac looked up, snatched the book out of her hand, and shook down several more scraps; then returned it with a curiously shame-faced expression, saying, as he crammed the papers into his pocket,-- "I beg pardon, but it was full of rubbish. Oh, yes! I'm fond of Keats; don't you know him?" "I used to read him a good deal; but uncle found me crying over the 'Pot of Basil,' and advised me to read less poetry for a while or I should get too sentimental," answered Rose, turning the pages without seeing them; for a new idea had just popped into her head. "'The Eve of St. Agnes' is the most perfect love-story in the world, I think," said Mac, enthusiastically. "Read it to me. I feel just like hearing poetry, and you will do it justice if you are fond of it," said Rose, handing him the book with an innocent air. "Nothing I'd like better; but it is rather long." "I'll tell you to stop if I get tired. Baby won't interrupt; she will be contented for an hour with those pretty things."