“Come, come, gentlemen!  Come, Madam Wycherly!” exclaimed the doctor.  “I really must protest against this riot.”

They stood still and shivered, for it seemed as if gray Time were calling them back from their sunny youth far down into the chill and darksome vale of years.  They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in his carved armchair holding the rose of half a century, which he had rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase.  At the motion of his hand the four rioters resumed their seats—­the more readily because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though they were.

“My poor Sylvia’s rose!” ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it in the light of the sunset clouds.  “It appears to be fading again.”

And so it was.  Even while the party were looking at it the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it into the vase.  He shook off the few drops of moisture which clung to its petals.

“I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness,” observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered lips.

While he spoke the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor’s snowy head and fell upon the floor.  His guests shivered again.  A strange dullness—­whether of the body or spirit they could not tell—­was creeping gradually over them all.  They gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched away a charm and left a deepening furrow where none had been before.  Was it an illusion?  Had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and were they now four aged people sitting with their old friend Dr. Heidegger?

“Are we grown old again so soon?” cried they, dolefully.

In truth, they had.  The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more transient than that of wine; the delirium which it created had effervesced away.  Yes, they were old again.  With a shuddering impulse that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands before her face and wished that the coffin-lid were over it, since it could be no longer beautiful.

“Yes, friends, ye are old again,” said Dr. Heidegger, “and, lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the ground.  Well, I bemoan it not; for if the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my lips in it—­no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments.  Such is the lesson ye have taught me.”

But the doctor’s four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves.  They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida and quaff at morning, noon and night from the Fountain of Youth.

LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE-HOUSE.

  I.—­HOWE’S MASQUERADE. 
 II.—­EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT. 
III.—­LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE. 
 IV.—­OLD ESTHER DUDLEY.

I.