hour he extinguished her
and retired to rest.

Next morning the Lamp was in a terrible humour.

"I don't choose to be blown out," she said.

"You would have gone out of your own accord else," returned the Magician.

"What!" exclaimed the Lamp, "am I not shining by my own light?"

"Certainly not: you are not now a Firefly or a Star. You must now depend
upon others. You would be dark for ever if I did not rekindle you by the
help of this oil."

"What!" cried the Lamp, "not shine of my own accord! Never! Make me an
everlasting lamp, or I will not be one at all."

"Alas, poor friend," returned the Magician sadly, "there is but one place
where aught is everlasting. I can make thee a lamp of the sepulchre."

"Content," responded the Lamp. And the Magician made her one of those
strange occult lamps which men find ever and anon when they unseal the
tombs of ancient kings and wizards, sustaining without nutriment a
perpetual flame. And he bore her to a sepulchre where a great king was
lying embalmed and perfect in his golden raiment, and set her at the head
of the corpse. And whether the poor fitful Firefly found at last rest in
the grave, we may know when we come thither ourselves. But the Magician
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