nk of thee, dear friend!
All losses are restored and sorrows end.'"

"It is bosh!" said the School-master. The Poet smiled quietly.

"Perfect bosh!" repeated the School-master. "And only shows how in weak
hands so beautiful a thing as the sonnet can be made ridiculous."

"What's wrong with it?" asked the Idiot.

"It doesn't contain any thought--or if it does, no one can tell what the
thought is. Your rhymes are atrocious. Your phraseology is ridiculous.
The whole thing is bad. You'll never get anybody to print it."

"I do not intend to try," said the Idiot, meekly.

"You are wise," said the School-master, "to take my advice for once."

"No, it is not your advice that restrains me," said the Idiot, dryly.
"It is the fact that this sonnet has already been printed."

"In the name of Letters, where?" cried the School-master.

"In the collected works of William Shakespeare," replied the Idiot,
quietly.

The Poet laughed; Mrs. Smithers's eyes filled with tears; and the
School-master for once had absolutely nothing to say.

XI

"Do you believe, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot, taking his place at
the table, and holding his plate up to the light, apparently to see
whether or not it was immaculate, whereat the landlady sniffed
contemptuously--"do you believe that the love of money is the root of
all evil?"

"I have always been of that impression," returned Mr. Whitechoker,
pleasantly. "In fact, I am sure of it," he added. "There is no evil
thing in this world, sir, that cannot be traced back to a point where
greed is found to be its main-spring and the source of its strength."

"Then how do you reconcile this with the scriptural story of the
forbidden fruit? Do you think the apples referred to were figures of
speech, the true import of which was that Adam and Eve had their eyes on
the original surplus?"

"Well, of course, there you begin to--ah--you seem to me to be going
back to the--er--the--ah--"

"Original root of all evil," prompted the Idiot, calmly.

"Precisely," returned Mr. Whitechoker, with a sigh of relief. "Mrs.
Smithers, I think I'll have a dash of hot-water in my coffee this
morning." Then, with a nervous glance towards the Idiot, he added,
addressing the Bibliomaniac, "I think it looks like rain."

"Referring to the coffee, Mr. Whitechoker?" queried the Idiot, not
disposed to let go of his victim quite so easily.

"Ah--I don't quite follow you," replied the Minister, with some