That was the sort of reward Rose liked, the thanks that cheered her; and whenever she grew very tired, one look at the green shade, the curly head so restless on the pillow, and the poor groping hands, touched her tender heart and put new spirit into the weary voice.

She did not know how much she was learning, both from the books she read and the daily sacrifices she made. Stories and poetry were her delight, but Mac did not care for them; and since his favourite Greeks and Romans were forbidden, he satisfied himself with travels, biographies, and the history of great inventions or discoveries. Rose despised this taste at first, but soon got interested in Livingstone’s adventures, Hobson’s stirring life in India, and the brave trials and triumphs of Watt and Arkwright, Fulton, and “Palissy, the Potter.” The true, strong books helped the dreamy girl; her faithful service and sweet patience touched and won the boy; and long afterward both learned to see how useful those seemingly hard and weary hours had been to them.

One bright morning, as Rose sat down to begin a fat volume entitled “History of the French Revolution,” expecting to come to great grief over the long names, Mac, who was lumbering about the room like a blind bear, stopped her by asking abruptly—

“What day of the month is it?”

“The seventh of August, I believe.”

“More than half my vacation gone, and I’ve only had a week of it! I call that hard,” and he groaned dismally.

“So it is; but there is more to come, and you may be able to enjoy that.”

“May be able! I will be able! Does that old noodle think I’m going to stay stived up here much longer?”

“I guess he does, unless your eyes get on faster than they have yet.”

“Has he said anything more lately?”

“I haven’t seen him, you know. Shall I begin? —this looks rather nice.”

“Read away; it’s all one to me.” And Mac cast himself down upon the old lounge, where his heavy head felt easiest.

Rose began with great spirit, and kept on gallantly for a couple of chapters, getting over the unpronounceable names with unexpected success, she thought, for her listener did not correct her once, and lay so still she fancied he was deeply interested. All of a sudden she was arrested in the middle of a fine paragraph by Mac, who sat bolt upright, brought both feet down with a thump, and said, in a rough, excited tone—

“Stop! I don’t hear a word, and you may as well save your breath to answer my question.”

“What is it?” asked Rose, looking uneasy, for she had something on her mind, and feared that he suspected what it was. His next words proved that she was right.

“Now, look here, I want to know something, and you’ve got to tell me.”

“Please, don’t—” began Rose, beseechingly.

“You must, or I’ll pull off this shade and stare at the sun as hard as ever I can stare. Come now!” and he half rose, as if ready to execute the threat.

“I will! oh, I will tell, if I know! But don’t be reckless and do anything so crazy as that,” cried Rose, in great distress.