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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
"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
"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
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