closed the gates of the sepulchre behind him, and walked thoughtfully home.  And as he approached his cottage, behold another Firefly darting and flashing in and out among the trees, as brilliantly as ever the first had done.  She was a wise Firefly, well satisfied with the world and everything in it, more particularly her own tail.  And if the Magician would have made a pet of her no doubt she would have abode with him.  But he never looked at her.

PAN’S WAND

Iridion had broken her lily.  A misfortune for any rustic nymph, but especially for her, since her life depended upon it.

From her birth the fate of Iridion had been associated with that of a flower of unusual loveliness—­a stately, candid lily, endowed with a charmed life, like its possessor.  The seasons came and went without leaving a trace upon it; innocence and beauty seemed as enduring with it, as evanescent with the children of men.  In equal though dissimilar loveliness its frolicsome young mistress nourished by its side.  One thing alone, the oracle had declared, could prejudice either, and this was an accident to the flower.  From such disaster it had long been shielded by the most delicate care; yet in the inscrutable counsels of the Gods, the dreaded calamity had at length come to pass.  Broken through the upper part of the stem, the listless flower drooped its petals towards the earth, and seemed to mourn their chastity, already sullied by the wan flaccidity of decay.  Not one had fallen as yet, and Iridion felt no pain or any symptom of approaching dissolution, except, it may be, the unwonted seriousness with which, having exhausted all her simple skill on behalf of the languishing plant, she sat down to consider its fate in the light of its bearing upon her own.

Meditation upon an utterly vague subject, whether of apprehension or of hope, speedily lapses into reverie.  To Iridion, Death was as indefinable an object of thought as the twin omnipotent controller of human destiny, Love.  Love, like the immature fruit on the bough, hung unsoliciting and unsolicited as yet, but slowly ripening to the maiden’s hand.  Death, a vague film in an illimitable sky, tempered without obscuring the sunshine of her life.  Confronted with it suddenly, she found it, in truth, an impalpable cloud, and herself as little competent as the gravest philosopher to answer the self-suggested inquiry, “What shall I be when I am no longer Iridion?” Superstition might have helped her to some definite conceptions, but superstition did not exist in her time.  Judge, reader, of its remoteness.

The maiden’s reverie might have terminated only with her existence, but for the salutary law which prohibits a young girl, not in love or at school, from sitting still more than ten minutes.  As she shifted her seat at the expiration of something like this period, she perceived that she had been sitting on a goatskin, and with a natural association of ideas—­