so," said
Sizike; and, carelessly humming a tune, she tripped into the house.

Kalman paced up and down with folded arms: he was quite confounded.
How could he imagine that a child of twelve years old should think of
making a fool of him? He might indeed have doubted had he heard it
from a grown-up person; but why should a child say such a thing,
unless she had heard it from those around her? In that case, it would
be better to return to Julia,--people said ill-natured things of her,
to be sure, and she was rather volatile and capricious; but at all
events she was rich, and very pretty. It might not be so difficult,
after all, to begin again: a few well got up scenes--an attempt at
suicide if necessary, and all would be right.

A horse was the only thing wanting--perhaps Berkessy would lend him
one; and with this hope the poet entered Uncle Gabor's apartment.
Berkessy was sitting on a large arm-chair, and Karely was standing
before him.

Kalman paused as he approached, to consider how he should arrange his
speech so that the old gentleman might suppose, and yet not suppose
that it was no longer his intention to propose for his daughter. And
here his evil genius again placed a looking-glass before him; and
again forgetting himself, he drew up his collar, brushed up his hair,
and the "Sir" with which he began his speech was apparently addressed
to himself.

Uncle Gabor, who had been observing his strange attitude in the
mirror, suddenly burst into one of his uncontrollable fits of
laughter, which Kalman was obliged this time to take to himself. He
grew red, then pale again, while his lips trembled with rage.

The old gentleman suddenly checked himself, and asked in the gravest
tone--"In what can I oblige you, nephew?"

"Sir," replied Kalman, scarcely able to articulate with fury, "I
thought--I expected to find in you a cultivated man, who despised the
superstition of the last century, which considered a poet as something
ridiculous."

"I do not consider poets ridiculous, sir," replied Berkessy gravely,
"as the walls of my room and my library will prove, where you may see
the portraits and the works of our best authors; but I despise that
bastard poetry which sucks the parent stem, and grows green without
ever producing fruit. I honour and revere those great minds, uniting
brilliant genius with vast study, who fulfil their glorious career to
the glory and honour of their country; but to mistake every reed
whistl