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 arm-chair, 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 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.
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