Youth， like the extremity of age， had effaced the stronglymarkedcharacteristics of middle life and mutually assimilatedthem all. They were a group of merry youngsters almostmaddened with the exuberant frolicsomeness of theiryears. The most singular effect of their gayety was animpulse to mock the infirmity and decrepitude of whichthey had so lately been the victims. They laughed loudlyat their old-fashioned attire—the wide-skirted coats andflapped waistcoats of the young men and the ancient capand gown of the blooming girl. One limped across thefloor like a gouty grandfather； one set a pair of spectaclesastride of his nose and pretended to pore over the blackletterpages of the book of magic； a third seated himselfin an arm-chair and strove to imitate the venerable dignityof Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully and leapedabout the room.
The widow Wycherly—if so fresh a damsel could becalled a widow—tripped up to the doctor’s chair with amischievous merriment in her rosy face.
“Doctor， you dear old soul，” cried she， “get up and dancewith me；” and then the four young people laughed louderthan ever to think what a queer figure the poor old doctorwould cut.
“Pray excuse me，” answered the doctor， quietly. “I amold and rheumatic， and my dancing-days were over longago. But either of these gay young gentlemen will be gladof 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，” exclaimedMr. Medbourne.
They all gathered round her. One caught both her handsin his passionate grasp， another threw his arm about herwaist， the third buried his hand among the glossy curlsthat clustered beneath the widow’s cap. Blushing， panting，struggling， chiding， laughing， her warm breath fanningeach of their faces by turns， she strove to disengage herself，yet still remained in their triple embrace. Never was therea livelier picture of youthful rivalship， with bewitchingbeauty for the prize. Yet， by a strange deception， owingto the duskiness of the chamber and the antique dresseswhich they still wore， the tall mirror is said to havereflected the figures of the three old， gray， withered grandsiresridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of ashrivelled grandam. But they were young： their burningpassions proved them so.
Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow，who neither granted nor quite withheld her favors， thethree rivals began to interchange threatening glances. Stillkeeping hold of the fair prize， they grappled fiercely atone another’s throats. As they struggled to and fro thetable was overturned and the vase dashed into a thousandfragments. The precious Water of Youth flowed in a brightstream across the floor， moistening the wings of a butterflywhich， grown old in the decline of summer， had alightedthere to die. The insect fluttered lightly through thechamber and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger.
“Come， come， gentlemen！ Come， Madam Wycherly！”
exclaimed the doctor. “I really must protest against thisriot.”
They stood still and shivered， for it seemed as if grayTime were calling them back from their sunny youthfar down into the chill and darksome vale of years.
They looked at old Dr. Heidegger， who sat in his carvedarmchair holding the rose of half a century， which he hadrescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase.
At the motion of his hand the four rioters resumed theirseats—the more readily because their violent exertionshad wearied them， youthful though they were.
“My poor Sylvia’s rose！” ejaculated Dr. Heidegger， holdingit in the light of the sunset clouds. “It appears to be fadingagain.”
And so it was. Even while the party were looking at itthe flower continued to shrivel up， till it became as dryand fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it into thevase. He shook off the few drops of moisture which clungto its petals.
“I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness，” observedhe， pressing the withered rose to his withered lips.
While he spoke the butterfly fluttered down from thedoctot’s snowy head and fell upon the floor. His guestsshivered again. A strange dullness—whether of the bodyor spirit they could not tell—was creeping gradually overthem all. They gazed at one another， and fancied thateach fleeting moment snatched away a charm and left adeepening furrow where none had been before. Was itan illusion？ Had the changes of a lifetime been crowdedinto so brief a space， and were they now four aged peoplesitting 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 merelya virtue more transient than that of wine； the deliriumwhich it created had effervesced away. Yes， they wereold again. With a shuddering impulse that showed her awoman still， the widow clasped her skinny hands beforeher face and wished that the coffin-lid were over it， sinceit 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 verydoorstep， 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 doctot’s four friends had taught no suchlesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to makea pilgrimage to Florida and quaff at morning， noon andnight from the Fountain of Youth.
