L. They change into the ice, I believe, and are knit with the gold, and make the grave dust of the valley I believe so, at least, for no one ever sees those souls anywhere. (SIBYL ceases questioning.) ISABEL (who has crept up to her side without any one seeing). Oh, Sibyl, please ask him about the fireflies! L. What, you there, mousie! No; I won't tell either Sibyl or you about the fireflies, nor a word more about anything else you ought to be little fireflies yourselves, and find your way in twilight by your own wits. ISABEL. But you said they burned, you know? L. Yes; and you may be fireflies that way too, some of you, before long, though I did not mean that. Away with you, children. You have thought enough for to-day. NOTE TO SECOND EDITION Sentence out of letter from May (who is staying with Isabel just now at Cassel), dated 15th June, 1877:-- "I am reading the Ethics with a nice Irish girl who is staying here, and she's just as puzzled as I've always been about the fireflies, and we both want to know so much.--Please be a very nice old Lecturer, and tell us, won't you?" Well, May, you never were a vain girl; so could scarcely guess that I meant them for the light, unpursued vanities, which yet blind us, confused among the stars. One evening, as I came late into Siena, the fireflies were flying high on a stormy sirocco wind,--the stars themselves no brighter, and all their host seeming, at moments, to fade as the insects faded.