rning us not to rejoice?"

"O stop!" cried Julia, on whom these words made an uncomfortable
impression; "it is not right to speak of such things; let us talk
rather of our wedding. Have you heard from your relations yet?"

Kalman assumed a Byronic look, and, turning up his eyes, "You are
happy, Julia," he replied; "ah! you are still a child, and can rejoice
at everything."

"Now, what nonsense, Kalman! you know I am at least five years older
than you are, if not more."

"Ah, Julia! years alone do not constitute time. You are still a child
at eight-and-twenty, while I am an old man at twenty-four. Not he who
is furthest from the cradle is the oldest, but he who is nearest the
grave. It is the weight of days, not their number, that brings
wrinkles. I have suffered as much as would suffice for a life of fifty
years!"

"Poor Kalman!" sighed Julia, laying her fair hand on the poet's
shoulder. Her delicacy prevented her asking what the deuce had caused
him so much suffering; besides, Kalman might have been shocked at
hearing her give utterance to such an expression.

"See!" continued Kalman, "at the very moment when I first beheld your
angel face, and my heart began to burn with the thought that I might
possess you--call you mine for ever--an ice-cold whisper seemed to
say, 'Rejoice not, all is uncertain till the day has come.'"

"But it is certain now," replied Julia, "for I have sent for the
dispensation, and invited my relations; we shall celebrate the wedding
this day week."

"Ha! this day week! do you not know that will be the thirteenth of the
month!"

"Indeed, I did not consult the calendar."

"Ah, Julia! that number has a fearful influence over my fate!"

"Well, let it be the previous day."

"Julia, you speak as securely as if you held the hand of fate within
your own."

"Well, if you wish it, and I have no objection, should I speak
otherwise than of a certainty?"

Kalman raised his finger, and with it his eyes, so that Julia began to
think he had discovered a spider's web hanging from the ceiling, and
was pointing it out to her. "Fate hangs over us," he exclaimed, "and
fate is capricious, Julia; broken hearts and withered hopes are
offerings in which she takes delight. Ah, Julia! you are happy if this
feeling has never breathed across your soul; if within your bosom's
world there are no magic chords on which the hand of prophecy strikes
wildly; it would have banished the roses from your face, as it