e for an AEolian harp, is what I cannot do. The real poet
elevates our mind by his ideas, while those who only call themselves
so because they invent rhymes can but excite a smile; and if nature
has given to my smile a somewhat louder tone than usual, it is not my
fault. Really, my dear nephew, the properties I first mentioned are
rather rare, while the latter certainly abound--and this you must not
take amiss from an old man."

No dictionary hitherto published contains words sufficiently
expressive of all that Kalman felt at this moment. To accuse a man of
stealing a silver fork, is nothing in comparison of telling him he is
a bad poet. At last, after a few moments' silence, he began in a
dignified tone: "Sir, if I did not consider that I am in your house"--

"That need not incommode you in the least: in my house the guests are
the masters."

"The insult you have offered me should be washed out with my blood,"
continued Kalman (he did not yet presume to say with anybody's else).

"I am not a surgeon," replied the old man, with quiet sarcasm.

Karely now stepped in between them, and taking Kalman's
arm--"Comrade," he whispered, "you are playing a very ridiculous part,
in disputing thus with an old gentleman."

"Why has he not a son, that I might demand satisfaction?"

"Take comfort, if that is all you want: I am his son, for I am going
to marry his daughter, and I am ready to give you all the satisfaction
you desire, but don't let us make a noise about it. I believe you are
going home at all events; so, if you will drive with me to S----, we
can settle this affair with our friends."

Uncle Gabor did not hear what the young men were saying; and as Karely
declared that he was obliged to go to S----, and would take Kalman
with him, he was quite satisfied, and ere long the two young men drove
away in the Tallyai carriage.

* * * * *

Meanwhile the Gulyasis arrived happily at S----, and were received by
the fair widow with the greatest amiability, and conducted to the
chamber of the sick youth, in whom Aunt Zsuzsi recognised her lost
son. He was reposing on a divan, arrayed in a rich silk dressing-gown,
embroidered slippers, and gold-tasselled cap, formerly the property of
the fair lady's husband.

Of course, Aunt Zsuzsi remarked nothing of all this at first, she
could only see her long-lost son; and falling on his neck, she sobbed
passionately for several minutes, after which she