only the lifeless
stem and the dry tips of his branches were left. He would never know his
kind friend again. And how she wept and mourned over him!

But Apollo heard her voice from afar, and, coming nearer, looked with
compassion upon her grief. He touched the tree with his all-healing
hands. Immediately the sap began to stir and rise in the trunk; young
leaves unfolded; white, nectar-laden flowers opened here and there.
Yes--for what cannot the immortals do-the beautiful, round fruits
appeared, three times three, the number of the nine sisters; they grew
and grew, their young green changing before his eyes to the color of
gold. Phoebus--so ended the poem--

Phoebus, in his work rejoicing,
Counts the fruit; but, ah! the sight
Tempts him. In another moment
Doth he yield to appetite.

Smiling, plucks the god of music
One sweet orange from the tree
"Share with me the fruit, thou fair one,
And this, slice shall Amor's be."

The verses were received with shouts of applause, and Max was readily
pardoned for the unexpected ending which had so completely altered the
really charming effect which he had made in the first version.

Franziska, whose ready wit had already been called out by the Count and
Mozart, suddenly left the table, and returning brought with her a large
old English engraving which had hung, little heeded, in a distant room.
"It must be true, as I have always heard, that there is nothing new
under the sun," she cried, as she set up the picture at the end of the
table. "Here in the Golden Age is the same scene which we have heard
about today. I hope that Apollo will recognize himself in this
situation."

"Excellent," answered Max. "There we have the god just as he is bending
thoughtfully over the sacred spring. And, look! behind him in the
thicket is an old Satyr watching him. I would take my oath that Apollo
is thinking of some long-forgotten Acadian dances which old Chiron
taught him to play on the cithern when he was young."

"Exactly," applauded Franziska, who was standing behind Mozart's chair.
Turning to him, she continued, "Do you see that bough heavy with fruit,
bending down toward the god?"

"Yes; that is the olive-tree, which was sacred to him."

"Not at all. Those are the finest oranges. And in a moment--in a fit of
abstraction--he will pick one."

"Instead," cried Mozart, "he will stop this roguish mouth with a
thousand kisses." And catching her by the arm he vo