Spirits dwelling in the zone Of the changeful devil stone, Pray ye say what destiny Is prepared by Fate for me. Doth the doubtful future hold Poverty or mickle gold, Fortune's smile, or Fortune's frown, Beggar's staff, or monarch's crown? Shall I wed, or live alone, Spirits of the devil stone? See the colours come and go, Thus foreboding joy and woe; Burns the red, the blue is seen, Yellow glows and flames the green, Like a rainbow in the sky, Mingle tints capriciously, Till the writhing of the hues, Sense and brain and eye confuse, Prophet priest can read alone Omens of the devil stone. Having finished dinner, they repaired to the library, and there made themselves comfortable with coffee and tobacco. Emotion at meeting one another after the lapse of so many years had by no means deprived them of their appetites, and they all did full justice to the excellent fare provided by Philip's cook. So busy were they in this respect that during the meal conversation waxed somewhat desultory, and it was not until comfortably seated in the library that they found time for a thoroughly exhaustive confabulation. For this purpose the quartette drew their chairs close together, and proceeded to incense the goddess Nicotina, of whom they were all devotees save Peter. He said that tobacco was bad for the nerves, especially when in the guise of cigarettes, which last shaft was aimed at Philip, who particularly affected those evil little dainties abhorred by Dr. Grench. Jack and Tim, to mark their contempt for Peter's counter-blast, produced well-coloured meerschaum pipes, which had circumnavigated the globe in their pockets. Whereat Peter, despairing of making proselytes, held his tongue and busied himself with his coffee--very weak coffee, with plenty of milk and no sugar. "What an old woman you have become, Peter," said Cassim, watching all this caution with languid interest. "You have positively no redeeming vices. But you won't live any the longer for such self-denial. Tim, there, with his strong coffee and stronger tobacco, will live to bury you." "Tim suffers from liver!" observed Peter, serenely making a side attack. "What!" roared Tim, indignantly, "is it me you mean? Why, I never had a touch of liver in my life." "You'll have it shortly, then," retorted Peter, with a pitying smile. "I'm a doctor, you know, Peter, and I can see at a glance that you are a mass of disease." All this time Jack had spoken very little. He alone of the party was not seated, but leaned against the mantelpiece, pipe in mouth, with a far-away look in his eyes. While Tim and Peter wrangled over the ailments of the former, Philip, lying back luxuriously in his chair, surveyed his old schoolfellow thoughtfully through a veil of smoke. He saw a greater change in Jack than in the other two.