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."
As if well pleased with his task, Mac laid himself
