ou have anything to do with her, take her, and
welcome. If you cannot, take yourself off instead."

"Be it so," returned the stranger, haughtily declining the proffered
inspection. "You will find it is ill joking with Death."

So saying, he quitted the cavern.

Pan sat down chuckling, yet not wholly at ease, for if the charity of Death
is beautiful even to a mortal, his anger is terrible, even to a god.
Anxious to terminate the adventure, he reached towards the charmed wand by
whose wonderful instrumentality the dying maiden had already become a
living flower, and was now to undergo a yet more delightful metamorphosis.

Wondrous wand! But where was it? For Death, the great transfigurer of all
below this lunar sphere, had given Pan a characteristic proof of his
superior cunning. Where the wand had reposed writhed a ghastly worm, which,
as Pan's glance fell upon it, glided towards him, uplifting its head with
an aspect of defiance. Pan's immortal nature sickened at the emblem of
corruption; he could not for all Olympus have touched his metamorphosed
treasure. As he shrank back the creature pursued its way towards 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
w