he
long-continued effort to project themselves mentally into the period of
old age was assisted in a startling manner by the illusion of the senses
produced by the decrepit figures, the sallow and wrinkled faces, and the
white heads of the group.

Their acting had become spontaneous. They were perplexed and bewildered
as to their identity, and in a manner carried away by the illusion their
own efforts had created. In some of the earlier conversation of the
evening there had been occasional jests and personalities, but the
talk had now become entirely serious. The pathos and melancholy of the
retrospections in which they were indulging became real. All felt that
if it was acting now, it was but the rehearsal of a coming reality. I
think some of them were for a little while not clearly conscious that it
was not already reality, and that their youth was not forever vanished.
The sense of age was weighing on them like a nightmare. In very
self-pity voices began to tremble and bosoms heaved with suppressed
sobs.

Mary rose and stepped to the piano. It indicated how fully she had
realized her part that, as she passed the mirror, no involuntary start
testified to surprise at the aged figure it reflected. She played in a
minor key an air to the words of Tennyson's matchless piece of pathos,
--

"The days that are no more," accompanying herself with a voice rich,
strong, and sweet. By the time she had finished, the girls were all
crying.

Suddenly Henry sprang to his feet, and, with the strained, uncertain
voice of one waking himself from a nightmare, cried:--

"Thank God, thank God, it is only a dream," and tore off the wig,
letting the brown hair fall about his forehead. Instantly all followed
his example, and in a moment the transformation was effected. Brown,
black, and golden hair was flying free; rosy cheeks were shining through
the powder where handkerchiefs had been hastily applied, and the
bent and tottering figures of a moment ago had given place to
broad-shouldered men and full-breasted girls. Henry caught Jessie around
the waist, Frank Nellie, and George Mary, and with one of the little
girls at the piano, up and down the room they dashed to the merriest of
waltzes in the maddest round that ever was danced. There was a reckless
abandon in their glee, as if the lust of life, the glow and fire of
youth, its glorious freedom, and its sense of boundless wealth, suddenly
set free, after long repression, had intoxic