splendid sunset from her western window; for October gave her child a beautiful good-night.
Rose turned round 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 say again 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 shrunk 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!"
"O 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
