the vase; but a marvellous change befell it as it came under the shadow of the flower.  The writhing body divided, end from end, the sordid scales sank indiscernibly into the dust, and an exquisite butterfly, arising from the ground, alighted on the lily, and remained for a moment fanning its wings in the last sunbeam, ere it unclosed them to the evening breeze.  Pan, looking eagerly after the Psyche in its flight, did not perceive what was taking place in the cavern; but the magic wand, now for ever lost to its possessor, must have cancelled its own spell, for when his gaze reverted from the ineffectual pursuit, the living lily had disappeared, and Iridion lay a corpse upon the ground, the faded flower of her destiny reposing upon her breast.

Death now stood for a third time upon Pan’s threshold, but Pan heeded him not.

A PAGE FROM THE BOOK OF FOLLY

“That owned the virtuous ring and glass.” [—­Il Penseroso.]

I

“Aurelia!”

“Otto!”

“Must we then part?”

They were folded in each other’s arms.  There never was such kissing.

“How shall we henceforth exchange the sweet tokens of our undying affection, my Otto?”

“Alas, my Aurelia, I know not!  Thy Otto blushes to acquaint thee that he cannot write.”

“Blush not, my Otto, thou needest not reproach thyself.  Even couldest thou write, thy Aurelia could not read.  Oh these dark ages!”

They remained some minutes gazing on each other with an expression of fond perplexity.  Suddenly the damsel’s features assumed the aspect of one who experiences the visitation of a happy thought.  Gently yet decidedly she pronounced: 

“We will exchange rings.”

They drew off their rings simultaneously.  “This, Aurelia, was my grandfather’s.”

“This, Otto, was my grandmother’s, which she charged me with her dying breath never to part with save to him whom alone I loved.”

“Mine is a brilliant, more radiant than aught save the eyes of my Aurelia.”

And, in fact, Aurelia’s eyes hardly sustained the comparison.  A finer stone could not easily be found.

“Mine is a sapphire, azure as the everlasting heavens, and type of a constancy enduring as they.”

In truth, it was of a tint seldom to be met with in sapphires.

The exchange made, the lady seemed less anxious to detain her lover.

“Beware, Otto!” she cried, as he slid down the cord, which yielded him an oscillatory transit from her casement to the moat, where he alighted knee-deep in mud.  “Beware!—­if my brother should be gazing from his chamber on the resplendent moon!”

But that ferocious young baron was accustomed to spend his time in a less romantic manner; and so it came to pass that Otto encountered him not.

II