"It is the good company I've been keeping, if any thing. A fellow can't spend 'A Week' with Thoreau, and not be the better for it. I'm glad I show it; because in the scramble life is to most of us, even an hour with such a sane, simple, and sagacious soul as his must help one," said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocket with the air of introducing a dear and honored friend. "I've read bits, and liked them: they are so original and fresh and sometimes droll," said Rose, smiling to see what natural and appropriate marks of approbation the elements seemed to set upon the pages Mac was turning eagerly; for one had evidently been rained on, a crushed berry stained another, some appreciative field-mouse or squirrel had nibbled one corner, and the cover was faded with the sunshine, which seemed to have filtered through to the thoughts within. "Here's a characteristic bit for you:-- "'I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an ox-cart, with free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train, and breathe malaria all the way.' "I've tried both and quite agree with him," laughed Mac; and, skimming down another page, gave her a paragraph here and there. "'Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all.' "'We do not learn much from learned books, but from sincere human books: frank, honest biographies.' "'At least let us have healthy books. Let the poet be as vigorous as a sugar-maple, with sap enough to maintain his own verdure, besides what runs into the trough; and not like a vine which, being cut in the spring, bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavor to heal its wounds.'" "That will do for you," said Rose, still thinking of the new suspicion which pleased her by its very improbability. Mac flashed a quick look at her and shut the book, saying quietly, though his eyes shone, and a conscious smile lurked about his mouth,-- "We shall see, and no one need meddle; for, as my Thoreau says,-- "'Whate'er we leave to God, God does And blesses us: The work we choose should be our own God lets alone.'" Rose sat silent, as if conscious that she deserved his poetical reproof. "Come, you have catechised me pretty well; now I'll take my turn and ask why _you_ look 'uplifted,' as you call it. What have you been doing to make yourself more like your namesake than ever?" asked Mac, carrying war into the enemy's camp with the sudden question. "Nothing but live, and enjoy doing it. I actually sit here, day after day, as happy and contented with little things as Dulce is, and feel as if I wasn't much older than she," answered the girl, feeling as if some change was going on in that pleasant sort of pause, but unable to describe it. "'As if a rose should shut and be a bud again,'" murmured Mac, borrowing from his beloved Keats.