e
gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner."

"Dance with me, Clara," cried Colonel Killigrew.

"No, no! I will be her partner," shouted Mr. Gascoigne.

"She promised me her hand fifty years ago," exclaimed Mr. Medbourne.

They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his
passionate grasp, another threw his arm about her waist, the third
buried his hand among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the
widow's cap. Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her
warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to
disengage herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. Never
was there a livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching
beauty for the prize. Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the
duskiness of the chamber and the antique dresses which they still
wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of the
three old, gray, withered grand-sires ridiculously contending for the
skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam. But they were young: their
burning passions proved them so.

Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither
granted nor quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to
interchange threatening glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize,
they grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As they struggled to
and fro the table was overturned and the vase dashed into a thousand
fragments. The precious Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream
across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly which, grown old
in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. The insect
fluttered lightly through the chamber and settled on the snowy head of
Dr. Heidegger.

"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