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 accompaniment of sunshine, solitude, and sympathy; for letters went to and fro, with praiseworthy regularity.

Rose much enjoyed this correspondence, and found herself regretting that it was at an end when she went home in September; for Mac wrote better than he talked, though he could do that remarkably well when he chose. But she had no chance to express either pleasure or regret; for, the first time she saw him after her return, the great change in his appearance made her forget every thing else. Some whim had seized him to be shaven and shorn, and when he presented himself to welcome Rose she hardly knew him; for the shaggy hair was nicely trimmed and brushed, the cherished brown beard entirely gone, showing a well cut mouth and handsome chin, and giving a new expression to the whole face.

"Are you trying to look like Keats?" she asked after a critical glance, which left her undecided whether the change was an improvement or not.

"I am trying not to look like uncle," answered Mac, coolly.

"And why, if you please?" demanded Rose, in great surprise.

"Because I prefer to look like myself, and not resemble any other man, no matter how good or great he may be."

"You haven't succeeded then; for you look now very much like the Young Augustus," returned Rose,