"Not a word.

I guessed it from her letters: for lately she says nothing about Mac, and
before there was a good deal; so I suspected what the silence meant, and asked no
questions."
"Wise girl! then you think she does care for the dear old fellow?"
"Of course she does. Didn't he tell you so?"
"No, he only said when he went away, 'Take care of my Rose, and I'll take care of your
Phebe,' and not another thing could I get out of him; for I did ask questions. He stood by
me like a hero, and kept Aunt Jane from driving me stark mad with her 'advice.' I don't
forget that, and burned to lend him a hand somewhere; but he begged me to let him
manage his wooing in his own way. And from what I see I should say he knew how to
do it," added Archie, finding it very delightful to gossip about love affairs with his
sweetheart.
"Dear little mistress! how does she behave?" asked[339] Phebe, longing for news, but
too grateful to ask at headquarters; remembering how generously Rose had tried to help
her, even by silence, the greatest sacrifice a woman can make at such interesting
periods.
"Very sweet and shy and charming. I try not to watch: but upon my word I cannot help
it sometimes; she is so 'cunning,' as you girls say. When I carry her a letter from Mac
she tries so hard not to show how glad she is, that I want to laugh, and tell her I know all
about it. But I look as sober as a judge, and as stupid as an owl by daylight; and she
enjoys her letter in peace, and thinks I'm so absorbed by my own passion that I'm blind
to hers."
"But why did Mac come away? He says lectures brought him, and he goes; but I am
sure something else is in his mind, he looks so happy at times. I don't see him very
often, but when I do I'm conscious that he isn't the Mac I left a year ago," said Phebe,
leading Archie away: for inexorable propriety forbade a longer stay, even if prudence
and duty had not given her a reminding nudge; as it was very cold, and afternoon church
came in an hour.
"Well, you see Mac was always peculiar, and he cannot even grow up like other
fellows. I don't understand him yet, and am sure he's got some plan in his head that no
one suspects, unless it is Uncle Alec. Love makes us all cut queer capers; and I've an
idea that the Don will distinguish himself in some uncommon way. So be prepared to
applaud whatever it is. We owe him that, you know."
[340]"Indeed we do! If Rose ever speaks of him to you, tell her I shall see that he comes
to no harm, and she must do the same for my Archie."
That unusual demonstration of tenderness from reserved Phebe very naturally turned the
conversation into a more personal channel; and Archie devoted himself to building
castles in the air so successfully that they passed the material mansion without either
being aware of it.
"Will you come in?" asked Phebe, when the mistake was rectified, and she stood on her
own steps looking down at her escort, who had discreetly released her before a pull at
the bell caused five heads to pop up at five different windows.
"No, thanks. I shall be at church this afternoon, and the Oratorio this evening. I must be
off early in the morning, so let me make the most of precious time, and come home with
you to-night as I did before," answered Archie, making his best bow, and quite sure of
consent.
"You may," and Phebe vanished, closing the door softly, as if she found it hard to shut
out so much love and happiness as that in the heart of the sedate young gentleman, who
went briskly down the street, humming a verse of old "Clyde" like a tuneful bass viol.
"'Oh, let our mingling voices riseIn grateful rapture to the skies,Where love has had its
birth.
[341]Let songs of joy this day declareThat spirits come their bliss to shareWith all the
sons of earth.'"
That afternoon Miss Moore sang remarkably well, and that evening quite electrified
even her best friends by the skill and power with which she rendered "Inflammatus" in
the oratorio.
"If that is not genius, I should like to know what it is?" said one young man to another,
as they went out just before the general crush at the end.
"Some genius and a great deal of love. They are a grand team, and, when well driven,
astonish the world by the time they make in the great race," answered the second young
man, with the look of one inclined to try his hand at driving that immortal span.
"Dare say you are right. Can't stop now: she's waiting for me. Don't sit up, Mac."
"The gods go with you, Archie."
And the cousins separated: one to write till midnight, the other to bid his Phebe good-
by, little dreaming how unexpectedly and successfully she was to earn her welcome
home.

[342]

CHAPTER XX.

WHAT MAC DID.

Rose, meantime, was trying to find out what the sentiment was with which she regarded
her cousin Mac. She could not seem to reconcile the character she had known so long
with the new one lately shown her; and the idea of loving the droll, bookish, absent-
minded Mac of former times appeared quite impossible and absurd: but the new Mac,
wide awake, full of talent, ardent and high-minded, was such a surprise to her she felt as
if her heart was being won by a stranger, and it became her to study him well before
yielding to a charm which she could not deny.
Affection came naturally, and had always been strong for the boy; regard for the
studious youth easily deepened to respect for the integrity of the young man: and now
something warmer was growing up within her; but at first she could not decide whether
it was admiration for the rapid unfolding of talent of some sort, or love answering to
love.
As if to settle that point, Mac sent her on New-Year's day a little book plainly bound
and modestly entitled "Songs and Sonnets." After reading this with ever-growing
surprise and delight, Rose never had another doubt about the writer's being a poet; for,
though she was no critic, she had read the best authors[343] and knew what was good.
Unpretending as it was, this had the true ring, and its very simplicity showed conscious
power; for, unlike so many first attempts, the book was not full of "My Lady," neither
did it indulge in Swinburnian convulsions about
"The lilies and languors of peace,The roses and raptures of love;"
or contain any of the highly colored mediæval word-pictures so much in vogue. "My
book should smell of pines, and resound with the hum of insects," might have been its
motto: so sweet and wholesome was it with a spring-like sort of freshness, which
plainly betrayed that the author had learned some of Nature's deepest secrets, and
possessed the skill to tell them in tuneful words. The songs went ringing through one's
memory long after they were read; and the sonnets were full of the subtle beauty,
insight, and half-unconscious wisdom, which seem to prove that "genius is divine when
young."
Many faults it had, but was so full of promise that it was evident Mac had not "kept
good company, read good books, loved good things, and cultivated soul and body as
faithfully as he could," in vain. It all told now; for truth and virtue had blossomed into
character, and had a language of their own more eloquent than the poetry to which they
were what the fragrance is to the flower. Wiser critics than Rose felt and admired this;
less partial ones could not deny[344] their praise to a first effort, which seemed as
spontaneous and aspiring as a lark's song; and, when one or two of these Jupiters had
given a nod of approval, Mac found himself, not exactly famous, but much talked about.
One set abused, the other set praised, and the little book was sadly mauled among them:
for it was too original to be ignored, and too robust to be killed by hard usage; so it
came out of the fray none the worse, but rather brighter, if any thing, for the friction
which proved the gold genuine.
This took time, however, and Rose could only sit at home reading all the notices she
could get, as well as the literary gossip Phebe sent her: for Mac seldom wrote, and never
a word about himself; so Phebe skilfully extracted from him in their occasional
meetings all the personal news her feminine wit could collect, and faithfully reported it.
It was a little singular that without a word of inquiry on either side, the letters of the
girls were principally filled with tidings of their respective lovers. Phebe wrote about
Mac; Rose answered with minute particulars about Archie; and both added hasty items
concerning their own affairs, as if these were of little consequence.
Phebe got the most satisfaction out of the correspondence; for, soon after the book
appeared, Rose began to want Mac home again, and to be rather jealous of the new
duties and delights that kept him. She was immensely proud of her poet, and had
little[345] jubilees over the beautiful fulfilment of her prophecies; for even Aunt Plenty
owned now with contrition that "the boy was not a fool." Every word of praise was read
aloud on the house-tops, so to speak, by happy Rose; every adverse criticism was hotly
disputed; and the whole family were in a great state of pleasant excitement over this
unexpectedly successful first flight of the Ugly Duckling, now generally considered by
his relatives as the most promising young swan of the flock.
Aunt Jane was particularly funny in her new position of mother to a callow poet, and
conducted herself like a proud but bewildered hen when one of her brood takes to the
water. She pored over the poems trying to appreciate them, but quite failing to do so; for
life was all prose to her, and she vainly tried to discover where Mac got his talent from.
It was pretty to see the new respect with which she treated his possessions now; the old
books were dusted with a sort of reverence; scraps of paper laid carefully by lest some
immortal verse be lost; and a certain shabby velvet jacket fondly smoothed, when no
one was by to smile at the maternal pride which filled her heart, and caused her once
severe countenance to shine with unwonted benignity.
Uncle Mac talked about "my son" with ill-concealed satisfaction, and evidently began to
feel as if his boy was going to confer distinction upon the whole race of Campbell,
which had already possessed one poet.[346] Steve exulted with irrepressible delight,
and went about quoting "Songs and Sonnets," till he bored his friends dreadfully by his
fraternal raptures.
Archie took it more quietly, and even suggested that it was too soon to crow yet; for the
dear old fellow's first burst might be his last, since it was impossible to predict what he
would do next. Having proved that he could write poetry, he might drop it for some new
world to conquer, quoting his favorite Thoreau, who, having made a perfect pencil, gave
up the business, and took to writing books with the sort of indelible ink which grows
clearer with time.
The aunts of course had their "views," and enjoyed much prophetic gossip, as they
wagged their caps over many social cups of tea. The younger boys thought it "very
jolly, and hoped the Don would go ahead and come to glory as soon as possible," which
was all that could be expected of "Young America," with whom poetry is not usually a
passion.
But Dr. Alec was a sight for "sair een:" so full of concentrated contentment was he. No
one but Rose, perhaps, knew how proud and pleased the good man felt at this first small
success of his godson; for he had always had high hopes of the boy, because in spite of
his oddities he had such an upright nature, and promising little did much, with the quiet
persistence which foretells a manly character. All the romance of the doctor's heart was
stirred by this poetic bud of promise, and the love that made it bloom so early;[347] for
Mac had confided his hopes to uncle, finding great consolation and support in his
sympathy and advice. Like a wise man, Dr. Alec left the young people to learn the great
lesson in their own way, counselling Mac to work, and Rose to wait, till both were quite
certain that their love was built on a surer foundation than admiration or youthful
romance.
Meantime he went about with a well-worn little book in his pocket, humming bits from
a new set of songs, and repeating with great fervor certain sonnets which seemed to him
quite equal, if not superior, to any that Shakspeare ever wrote. As Rose was doing the
same thing, they often met for a private "read and warble," as they called it; and, while
discussing the safe subject of Mac's poetry, both arrived at a pretty clear idea of what
Mac's reward was to be when he came home.
He seemed in no hurry to do this, however, and continued to astonish his family by
going into society, and coming out brilliantly in that line. It takes very little to make a
lion, as every one knows who has seen what poor specimens are patted and petted every
year, in spite of their bad manners, foolish vagaries, and very feeble roaring. Mac did
not want to be lionized, and took it rather scornfully, which only added to the charm
that people suddenly discovered about the nineteenth cousin of Thomas Campbell, the
poet. He desired to be distinguished in the best sense of the word, as well as to look so,
and thought a little of the[348] polish society gives would not be amiss, remembering
Rose's efforts in that line. For her sake he came out of his shell, and went about seeing
and testing all sorts of people with those observing eyes of his, which saw so much in
spite of their near-sightedness. What use he meant to make of these new experiences no
one knew; for he wrote short letters, and, when questioned, answered with
imperturbable patience,—
"Wait till I get through; then I'll come home and talk about it."
So every one waited for the poet, till something happened which produced a greater
sensation in the family than if all the boys had simultaneously taken to rhyming.
Dr. Alec got very impatient, and suddenly announced that he was going to L. to see
after those young people; for Phebe was rapidly singing herself into public favor, with
the sweet old ballads which she rendered so beautifully that hearts were touched as well
as ears delighted, and her prospects brightening every month.
"Will you come with me, Rose, and surprise this ambitious pair, who are getting famous
so fast they'll forget their home-keeping friends if we don't remind them of us now and
then?" he said, when he proposed the trip one wild March morning.
"No, thank you, sir; I'll stay with auntie: that is all I'm fit for; and I should only be in the
way among those fine people," answered Rose, snipping away at the plants blooming in
the study window.
[349]There was a slight bitterness in her voice and a cloud on her face, which her uncle
heard and saw at once, half-guessed the meaning of, and could not rest till he had found
out.
"Do you think Phebe and Mac would not care to see you?" he asked, putting down a
letter in which Mac gave a glowing account of a concert at which Phebe surpassed
herself.
"No, but they must be very busy," began Rose, wishing she had held her tongue.
"Then what is the matter?" persisted Dr. Alec.
Rose did not speak for a moment, and decapitated two fine geraniums with a reckless
slash of her scissors, as if pent-up vexation of some kind must find a vent. It did in
words also; for, as if quite against her will, she exclaimed impetuously,—
"The truth is, I'm jealous of them both!"
"Bless my soul! what now?" ejaculated the doctor, in great surprise.
Rose put down her watering-pot and shears, came and stood before him with her hands
nervously twisted together, and said, just as she used to do when she was a little girl
confessing some misdeed,—
"Uncle, I must tell you; for I've been getting very envious, discontented, and bad lately.
No, don't be good to me yet; for you don't know how little I deserve it. Scold me well,
and make me see how wicked I am."
"I will as soon as I know what I am to scold about. Unburden yourself, child, and let me
see all your[350] iniquity; for, if you begin by being jealous of Mac and Phebe, I'm
prepared for any thing," said Dr. Alec, leaning back as if nothing could surprise him
now.