To-day in Paris one of the loveliest women in the world holds undisputed sway as a reigning beauty. The “old,” now the “young” Diana is the envy of her sex and the despair of men. Years pass over her and leave no change in her fair face or radiant eyes,--a creature of light and magnetic force, she lives for the most part the life of a student and recluse, and any entertaining of society in her house is rare, though the men of learning and science who were friends of Professor Chauvet are always welcomed by their adorable hostess, who to them has become a centre of something like worship. So far as she herself is concerned, she is untouched by either admiration or flattery. Each day finds her further removed from the temporary joys and sorrows of humanity, and more enwrapt in a strange world of unknown experience to which she seems to belong. She is happy, because she has forgotten all that might have made her otherwise. She feels neither love nor hate: and Féodor Dimitrius, now alone in the world, his mother having passed away suddenly in her sleep, wanders near her, watchfully, but more or less aimlessly, knowing that his beautiful “experiment” has out-mastered him, and that in the mysterious force wherewith his science has endowed her, she has gone beyond his power. His “claim” upon her lessens day by day, rendering him helpless to contend with what he imagined he had himself created. The Marchese Farnese, catching a passing glimpse of her in Paris, became so filled with amazement that he spread all sorts of rumours respecting her real “age” and the “magic art” of Dimitrius, none of which were believed, of course, but which added to the mystery surrounding her--though she herself never condescended to notice them. To this day she holds herself apart and invisible to all save those whom she personally chooses to receive. No man can boast of any favour at her hands,--not even Dimitrius. And,--as was said at the beginning of this veracious narrative--there is no end for Diana May. She lives as the light lives,--fair and emotionless,--as all may live who master the secret of living,--a secret which, though now apparently impregnable, shall yield itself to those, who, before very long, will grasp the Flaming Sword and “take and eat of the fruit of the Tree of Life.” The Sword turns every way--but the blossom is behind the blade. And in this Great Effort neither the love of man nor the love of woman have any part, nor any propagation of an imperfect race,--for those who would reach the goal must relinquish all save the realisation of that “new heaven and new earth” of splendid and lasting youth and vitality when “old things are passed away.” THE END Transcriber's Notes A number of typographical errors were corrected silently. Cover image is in the public domain.