And Deborah, looking through the robe, saw the bubbles shining in the darkness; and listening, heard the sound of faintest music—harp strings and bells—and the lights kept time to them. Ting! ting! They danced in the branches, balls of clearest, transparent light. Oh! There was a beauty! Crimson and larger than most. The Spirit moved slightly, the scene became clearer. Why, it was another dark path, and the ball, moving airily, lit it up as it tossed gracefully forward to the magic sounds. Another figure in the path. This time a man. And he was running and stumbling forward in the darkness, grasping at the dazzling ball. But it always evaded him. The music quickened—his step quickened also. The shining globe danced forward. Then he, being weary, for the road had been long and dark, and he had stumbled often, leant back against a gnarled tree trunk, his chin sunk upon his breast. His was a very ashen face, with sunken eyes; blackened leaves smirched all with red stuck to him everywhere. The clear ball, swung by a backward motion, danced to where he leant with the weariness of death, and stood suspended in the air before him. He raised his eyes and looked at it for one second, then the lids fell again. It danced nearer, swung itself even till it grazed his hand. Stung to life by the touch he started quivering. The red light was reflected in his eyes. The ball rose in the air to the level of his head. With a sudden plunge forward he caught it in both hands. It burst and fell around him in crimson flames of blood. Over head, and face, and hands, and shoulders. Ugh! think of it. Hist! Ssh! The music is still. With both hands raised above his head in helpless agony, his face drawn back, he staggers sideways. Hark! ’Tis the bitter cry. Oh! but this is agony, exceeding agony, burning to the brain and heart. That bitter, bitter, bitter cry. To hear it sends the blood like icicles to the heart, and makes it run slower and colder for ever after. He doesn’t fall. His tattered coat has caught in the forked branch of a tree. He looks like a dancing puppet run down and left unstrung. His legs, and arms, and head hang limp and lifeless. He has gone. But there is something grotesque about him after all. Scarce has the last low wail died away before a roar of laughter rises. An excellent joke provided for the world, because the upnotes of his cry resembled somewhat the crowing of a cock. Ah! There is another glimmering light—blue this time and purple. Another path—another figure. Only a woman now. Round! Round! in a giddy whirl the ball flies. Her feet are cut by briars and stones, and the red stream has dyed them.