the source from whence it came, for Mac sent her a Cupid not the
chubby child with a face of naughty merriment, but a slender,
winged youth leaning on his unstrung bow, with a broken arrow at
his feet. A poem, “To Psyche,” came with it, and Rose was much
surprised at the beauty of the lines, for, instead of being witty,
complimentary, or gay, there was something nobler than mere
sentiment in them, and the sweet old fable lived again in language
which fitly painted the maiden Soul looking for a Love worthy to
possess it.
Rose read them over and over as she sat among the gold and
scarlet leaves which glorified her little room, and each time found
new depth and beauty in them, looking from the words that made
music in her ear to the lovely shapes that spoke with their mute
grace to her eye. The whole thing suited her exactly, it was so
delicate and perfect in its way, for she was tired of costly gifts and
valued very much this proof of her cousin’s taste and talent, seeing
nothing in it but an affectionate desire to please her.
All the rest dropped in at intervals through the day to say a loving
word, and last of all came Mac. Rose happened to be alone with
Dulce, enjoying a splendid sunset from her western window, for
October gave her child a beautiful good night.
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