There was a general rejoicing, and Max embraced me; and then he hugged Christina; and then I took advantage of the excuse--I was very happy in finding such excuses--to do likewise by my stately beauty; and then there was handshaking by the old folks all around, and kisses from the little folks. Not long afterward there was much whispering and laughing between Christina and Estella; they were in the garden; they seemed to be reading some paper, which they held between them. And then that scamp, Max, crept quietly behind them, and, reaching over, snatched the paper out of their hands. And then Estella looked disturbed, and glanced at me and blushed; and Max began to dance and laugh, and cried out, "Ho! ho! we have a poet in the family!" And then I realized that some verses, which I had given Estella the day before, had fallen into the hands of that mocker. I would not give much for a man who does not grow poetical when he is making love. It is to man what song is to the bird. But to have one's weaknesses exposed--that is another matter! And so I ran after Max; but in vain. He climbed into a tree, and then began to recite my love poetry: "Listen to this," he cried; "here are fourteen verses; each one begins and ends with the word _'thee.'_ Here's a sample: "'All thought, all fear, all grief, all earth, all air, Forgot shall be; Knit unto each, to each kith, kind and kin,-- Life, like these rhyming verses, shall begin And end in--_thee!_' "And here," he cried, "is another long poem. Phœbus! what a name--_'Artesian Waters!'_ Here Christina, Estella and I pelted the rogue with apples. "I know why they are called 'Artesian Waters,'" he cried; "it is because it took a great _bore_ to produce them. Hal ha! But listen to it: "'There is a depth at which perpetual springs Fresh water, in all lands: The which once reached, the buried torrent flings Its treasures o'er the sands.' "Ouch!" he cried, "that one hit me on the nose: I mean the apple, not the verse. "'One knows not how, beneath the dark, deep crust, The clear flood there has come: One knows not why, amid eternal dust, Slumbers that sea of foam.' "Plain enough," he cried, dodging the apples; "the attraction of gravitation did the business for it. "'Dark-buried, sepulchred, entombed and deep, Away from mortal ken, It lies, till, summoned from its silent sleep, It leaps to light again.' "Very good," he said, "and now here comes the application, the moral of the poem. "'So shall we find no intellect so dull, No soul so cold to move, No heart of self or sinfulness so full, But still hath power to love.' "Of course," he said; "he knows how it is himself; the poet fills the bill exactly.