nding to join in the joke, although it
was something quite different they were laughing about. Reader, would
you understand their mirth? You must be young, and in love.

Kalman the poet alone maintained a Parnassus repose of feature. His
countenance was never discomposed by a smile, while his eyes were
constantly fixed on the young lady of the house, or straight before
him--not on Uncle Menyhert, but beyond him on the opposite wall, on
which a large mirror was suspended. This mirror seemed to divide his
attention with Lina; and to judge by his countenance, he was perfectly
satisfied with the appearance reflected within--watching every motion
of his hands as he ate his dinner, or picked his teeth.

Nobody seemed to observe him excepting little Sizike, whose
mischievous eyes nothing escaped. Her _naive_ ideas kept the old
gentleman in constant mirth; and once or twice he was very nearly
breaking out into one of his terrible explosions, when, pointing to
Sandor, who was stretching his foot under the table, she whispered:
"See, bacsi, the student is disappearing!" in allusion to one of his
own stories of a student who disappeared under the table.

The general gaiety had reached its climax, when Kalman rose from his
seat, and, drawing his fingers through his hair, filled his glass, and
coughed slightly, to signify to the company that he was about to
speak.

The noise ceased; each person hushed his neighbour, and endeavoured to
assume a befitting length of countenance. The poet gazed around him
for a few moments, and then, raising his glass, began:--

"There is a sea, beneath which a lovely pearl lies concealed." . . .

"See, bacsi," whispered Sizike in Uncle Gabor's ear, "how Kalman looks
at himself in the glass!"

Uncle Gabor glanced at the poet, whose eyes were fixed intently on
the mirror with the most extraordinary self-complacency, totally
unconscious of the mirth he excited.

"This pearl," he continued, with great pathos, "is dearer than
Cleopatra's far-famed pearl, purer than those in the Brazilian
emperor's diadem! To win this gem, it were small sacrifice to descend
into the depths of the ocean: to die for it were bliss!" . . . .

"See, bacsi, how he offers himself the glass in the mirror," whispered
Sizike again.

Uncle Gabor seemed ready to burst, like an over-heated steam-boiler.
His vast chest rose and fell, his face grew purple, he clenched his
fists.

Karely, meanwhile, observing that Sandor was p