Two worlds, the higher and the lower, separated by the thinnest of partitions.  The lower world is that of questions; the upper world is that of answers.  Endless doubt and unrest here below; wondering, admiring, adoring certainty above.—­Am I not right?

“You are right,” answered Number Seven solemnly.  “That is my revelation.”

The following poem was found in the sugar-bowl.

I read it to the company.  There was much whispering and there were many conjectures as to its authorship, but every Teacup looked innocent, and we separated each with his or her private conviction.  I had mine, but I will not mention it.

        Therose and the fern.

   Lady, life’s sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn,
   Come thou with me to Love’s enchanted bower: 
   High overhead the trellised roses burn;
   Beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern,
   A leaf without a flower.

   What though the rose leaves fall?  They still are sweet,
   And have been lovely in their beauteous prime,
   While the bare frond seems ever to repeat,
   “For us no bud, no blossom, wakes to greet
   The joyous flowering time!”

   Heed thou the lesson.  Life has leaves to tread
   And flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows;
   Wait not till autumn’s fading robes are shed,
   But while its petals still are burning red
   Gather life’s full-blown rose!

VI

Of course the reading of the poem at the end of the last paper has left a deep impression.  I strongly suspect that something very much like love-making is going on at our table.  A peep under the lid of the sugar-bowl has shown me that there is another poem ready for the company.  That receptacle is looked upon with an almost tremulous excitement by more than one of The Teacups.  The two Annexes turn towards the mystic urn as if the lots which were to determine their destiny were shut up in it.  Number Five, quieter, and not betraying more curiosity than belongs to the sex at all ages, glances at the sugarbowl now and then; looking so like a clairvoyant, that sometimes I cannot help thinking she must be one.  There is a sly look about that young Doctor’s eyes, which might imply that he knows something about what the silver vessel holds, or is going to hold.  The Tutor naturally falls under suspicion, as he is known to have written and published poems.  I suppose the Professor and myself have hardly been suspected of writing love-poems; but there is no telling,—­there is no telling.  Why may not some one of the lady Teacups have played the part of a masculine lover?  George Sand, George Eliot, Charles Egbert Craddock, made pretty good men in print.  The authoress of “Jane Eyre” was taken for a man by many persons.  Can Number Five be masquerading in verse?  Or is one of the two Annexes the make believe lover?