while the party were looking at it the flower
continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the
doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops
of moisture which clung to its petals.

"I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness," observed he,
pressing the withered rose to his withered lips.

While he spoke the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy
head and fell upon the floor. His guests shivered again. A strange
dullness--whether of the body or spirit they could not tell--was
creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at one another, and
fancied that each fleeting moment snatched away a charm and left a
deepening furrow where none had been before. Was it an illusion? Had
the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and were
they now four aged people sitting 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 merely a virtue more
transient than that of wine; the delirium which it created had
effervesced away. Yes, they were old again. With a shuddering impulse
that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands
before her face and wished that the coffin-lid were over it, since it
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 very doorstep, 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 doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves.
They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida and quaff at
morning, noon and night from the Fountain of Youth.

LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE-HOUSE.

I.--HOWE'S MASQUERADE.
II.--EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT.
III.--LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE.
IV.--OLD ESTHER DUDLEY.

I.

HOWE'S MASQUERADE.

One afternoon last summer, while walking along Washington street, my
eye was attracted by a sign-board protruding over a narrow archway
nearly opposite the Old South Church. The sign represented the front
of a stately edifice which was designated as the "OLD PROVINCE HOUSE,
kept by Thomas Waite." I was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose,
long entertained, of visiting and rambling over the mansion of the old
royal governors o