esth for dresses and confectionary; and, in
about an hour afterwards, the whole town was talking of the secret
marriage, and guessing who the happy bridegroom might be--for Nanasi
bacsi had not told his name, husbanding his news, like all true
gossips, that he might have something new to relate when he came back.

Meanwhile, Julia returned to her room, with the placid conviction of
having arranged all her affairs to satisfaction, and gave orders to
her servants not to admit any person except Kalman.

In a short time the sound of steps echoed along the corridor, and
Julia assumed her sweetest smiles; for our readers are no doubt aware
that, under such circumstances, namely, when one is in love, even the
sound of a boot-heel may be recognised. In this respect, only the
editors of newspapers have a finer instinct--who, it is said, tell,
even from the sound of a step in the street, whether it is the postman
with subscribers or a poet with his verses. In this case the magnetism
was reversed; Julia expected the poet, not the postman, and she was
not deceived--

Kalman Sos opened the door.

He was a pale, interesting youth--not that his paleness alone made him
interesting, but he entered the room as Hamlet is expected to enter
with the skull, and, walking with pathetic steps towards Julia, he
raised the fair lady's hand to his lips, where he held it for a long
time, and would probably have been holding it still, had not Julia
withdrawn it, exclaiming, "Something is the matter, Kalman, that you
are so sad to-day?"

"Sad I am, indeed!" replied the poet.

"For mercy's sake!" exclaimed Julia, in alarm, "what has taken place?"

"Nothing, nothing," replied Kalman, but in a tone which left his fair
bride to surmise the worst; and then, sinking into an arm-chair, he
gazed vacantly before him.

"Yes, yes, there is something the matter with you," cried the lady,
really frightened; "I entreat, I desire you will tell me instantly!"

The poet rose _a tempo_, and once more taking Julia's hand, he gazed
long and earnestly into her eyes. "Do you believe in presentiments?"
he asked at last, in a faltering voice.

"How! Why?"

"Have you never known that feeling, something like a waking dream,
which overtakes us in our gayest hours, as if some cold hand passed
across the brow, and the smile which had risen on the lip dies away;
as if suddenly a magic mirror rose before us, reflecting our own
countenance, but pale and dark, as if wa