Suddenly the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up with a ruddy glow, and where the darkness had been, there was she—­the vision of the fountain.  A spirit of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow and appeared again in the firelight, perhaps to flicker with the blaze and be gone.  Vet her cheek was rosy and lifelike, and her features, in the bright warmth of the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my recollection of them.  She knew me.  The mirthful expression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her countenance when I beheld her faint beauty in the fountain was laughing and dimpling there now.  One moment our glance mingled; the next, down rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood, and darkness snatched away that daughter of the light, and gave her back to me no more!

Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell.  Must the simple mystery be revealed, then, that Rachel was the daughter of the village squire and had left home for a boarding-school the morning after I arrived and returned the day before my departure?  If I transformed her to an angel, it is what every youthful lover does for his mistress.  Therein consists the essence of my story.  But slight the change, sweet maids, to make angels of yourselves.

FANCY’S SHOW-BOX.

A MORALITY.

What is guilt?  A stain upon the soul.  And it is a point of vast interest whether the soul may contract such stains in all their depth and flagrancy from deeds which may have been plotted and resolved upon, but which physically have never had existence.  Must the fleshly hand and visible frame of man set its seal to the evil designs of the soul, in order to give them their entire validity against the sinner?  Or, while none but crimes perpetrated are cognizable before an earthly tribunal, will guilty thoughts—­of which guilty deeds are no more than shadows,—­will these draw down the full weight of a condemning sentence in the supreme court of eternity?  In the solitude of a midnight chamber or in a desert afar from men or in a church while the body is kneeling the soul may pollute itself even with those crimes which we are accustomed to deem altogether carnal.  If this be true, it is a fearful truth.

Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example.  A venerable gentleman—­one Mr. Smith—­who had long been regarded as a pattern of moral excellence was warming his aged blood with a glass or two of generous wine.  His children being gone forth about their worldly business and his grandchildren at school, he sat alone in a deep luxurious arm-chair with his feet beneath a richly-carved mahogany table.  Some old people have a dread of solitude, and when better company may not be had rejoice even to hear the quiet breathing of a babe asleep upon the carpet.  But Mr. Smith, whose silver hair was the bright symbol of a life unstained except by such spots as are inseparable from human nature—­he had no need of a babe to protect him by its purity, nor of a grown person to stand between him and his own soul.  Nevertheless, either manhood must converse with age, or womanhood must soothe him with gentle cares, or infancy must sport around his chair, or his thoughts will stray into the misty region of the past and the old man be chill and sad.  Wine will not always cheer him.