maiden. The vexations one has to endure from those girls, Jason, can't be
described, especially since they've grown deaf."

"Deaf?" asked the old man in astonishment.

"Yes, they scarcely understand a word correctly, and even Xanthe, who has
just reached her seventeenth year, is beginning to be hard of hearing."

A smile flitted over Jason's face, and, raising his voice to a louder
tone, he said, flatteringly:

"Every one can't have senses as keen as yours, Semestre; have you time to
listen to me?"

The house-keeper nodded assent, leaned against the column nearest the
hearth, rested both hands on her staff, and bent forward to intimate that
she would listen attentively, and did not wish to lose a single word.

Jason stood directly opposite, and, while thus measuring each other with
their eyes, Semestre looked like a cautious cat awaiting the attack of
the less nimble but stronger shepherd's dog.

"You know," Jason began, that when, long ago, we two, you as nurse and I
as steward, came to this place, our present masters' fine estates
belonged undivided to their father. The gods gave the old man three sons.
The oldest, Alciphron, whom you nursed and watched through his boyhood,
went to a foreign land, became a great merchant in Messina, and, after
his father's death, received a large inheritance in gold, silver and the
city house at the port. The country estates were divided between Protarch
and Lysander. My master, as the elder of the two, obtained the old house;
yours built this new and elegant mansion. One son, the handsome Phaon,
has grown up under our roof, while yours shelters the lovely Xanthe. My
master has gone to Messina, not only to sell our oil and yours, but to
speak to the guardian of a wealthy heiress, of whom his brother had
written. He wants her for Phaon's wife; but I think Phaon was created for
Xanthe and Xanthe for him. There's nothing lacking, except to have
Hymen--"

"To have Hymen unite them," interrupted Semestre. "There's no hurry about
heiresses; they don't let themselves be plucked like blackberries. If she
has scorned her country suitor, it may well seem desirable to Protarch
and all of you that Xanthe should prove more yielding, for then our
property would be joined with yours."

"It would be just the same as during Dionysius's lifetime."

"And you alone would reap the profit."

"No, Semestre, it would be an advantage to both us and you; for, since
your master had that unlucky fall from the high wall of the vineyard, the
ruler's eye is lacking here, and many things don't go as they ought."

"People see what they want to see," cried Semestre. "Our estates are no
worse managed than yours."

"I only meant to say--"

"That your Phaon seems to you well fitted to supply my master's place. I
think differently, and, if Lysander continues to improve, he'll learn to
use his limbs again."

"An invalid needs rest, and, since the deaths of your mistress and mine,
quarrelling never ceases--"

"We never disturb the peace."

"And quarrelling is even more unpleasant to us than to you; but how often
the shepherds and vine-dressers fight over the spring, which belongs to
us both, and whose beautiful wall and marble bench are already damaged,
and will soon be completely destroyed, because your master says mine
ought to bear the expense of the work--"

"And I daily strengthen him in this belief. We repaired the inclosing
wall of the spring, and it's only fair to ask Protarch to mend the
masonry of the platform. We won't yield, and if you--"

"If we refuse to do Lysander's will, it will lead to the quarrelling I
would fain prevent by Phaon's marriage with your Xanthe. Your master is
in the habit of following your advice, as if you were his own mother. You
nurse the poor invalid like one, and if you would only--"

"Lysander has other plans, and Phaon's father is seeking an heiress for
his son in Messina."

"But surely not for the youth's happiness, nor do I come to speak to you
in Protarch's name."

"So you invented the little plan yourself--I am afraid without success,
for I've already told you that my master has other views."

"Then try to win him to our side--no, not only to us, but to do what is
best for the prosperity of this house."

"Not for this house; only for yourselves. Your plan doesn't please me."

"Why not?"

"I don't wish what you desire."

"'I don't wish;' that's a woman's most convincing reason.

"It is, for at least I desire nothing I haven't carefully considered. And
you know Alciphron, in Syracuse, our master's oldest brother, did not ask
for the heiress, who probably seemed to him too insignificant for his own
family, but wanted our girl for his son Leonax. We joyfully gave our
consent, and, within a few days, perhaps to-morrow, the suitor will come
from Messina with your master to see his bride."

"Still, I stick to it: your Xanthe belongs to our Phaon, and, if you
would act according to Dionysius's wishes, like fair-minded people--"

"Isn't Alciphron--the best and wisest of men--also Dionysius's child? I
would give his first-born, rather than any one else, this fruitful soil,
and, when the rich father's favorite, when Leonax once rules here by
Xanthe's side, there'll be no lack of means to rebuild the platform and
renew a few marble benches."

Angered by these words, the old man indignantly exclaimed:

"You add mockery to wrong. We know the truth. To please Alciphron, your
foster-child, you would make us all beggars. If Lysander gives his
daughter to Leonax it will be your work, yours alone, and we will--"

Semestre did not allow herself to be intimidated, but, angrily raising
her myrtle-staff, interrupted Jason by exclaiming in a loud, tremulous
voice:

You are right. This old heart clings to Alciphron, and throbs more
quickly at the mere mention of its darling's name; but verily you have
done little to win our affection. Last autumn the harvest of new wine was
more abundant than we expected. We lacked skins, and when we asked you to
help us with yours--"

"We said no, because we ourselves did not know what to do with the
harvest."

"And who shamefully killed my gray cat?"

"It entered Phaon's dove-cote and killed the young of his best pair of
cropper pigeons."

"It was a marten, not the good, kind creature. You are unfriendly in all
your acts, for when our brown hen flew over to you yesterday she was
driven away with stones. Did Phaon mistake her for a vulture with sharp
beak and powerful talons?"

"A maid-servant drove her away, because, since your master has been ill
and no longer able to attend to business, your poultry daily feeds upon
our barley."

"I'm surprised you don't brand us as robbers!" cried Semestre. "Yes, if
you had beaten me yourself with a stick, you would say a dry branch of a
fig or olive tree had accidentally fallen on my back. I know you well
enough, and Leonax, Alciphron's son, not your sleepy Phaon, whom people
say is roaming about when he ought to be resting quietly in the house,
shall have our girl for his wife. It's not I who say so, but Lysander, my
lord and master."

"Your will is his," replied Jason. "Far be it from me to wound the sick
man with words, but ever since he has been ill you've played the master,
and he ought to be called the house-keeper. Ay, you have more influence
under his roof than any one else, but Aphrodite and Eros are a thousand
times more powerful, for you rule by pans, spits, and soft pillows--they
govern hearts with divine, irresistible omnipotence."

Semestre laughed scornfully, and, striking the hard stone floor with her
myrtle-staff, exclaimed:

"My spit is enough, and perhaps Eros is helping it with his arrows, for
Xanthe no longer asks for your Phaon, any more than I fretted for a
person now standing before me when he was young. Eros loves harder work.
People who grow up together and meet every day, morning, noon, and night,
get used to each other as the foot does to the sandal, and the sandal to
the foot, but the heart remains untouched. But when a handsome stranger,
with perfumed locks and costly garments, suddenly meets the maiden,
Aphrodite's little son fits an arrow to his golden bow."

"But he doesn't shoot," cried Jason, "when he knows that another shaft
has already pierced the maiden's heart. Any man can win any girl, except
one whose soul is filled with love for another."

"The gray-headed old bachelor speaks from experience," retorted Semestre,
quickly. "And your Phaon! If he really loved our girl, how could he woo
another or have her wooed for him? It comes to the same thing. But I
don't like to waste so many words. I know our Xanthe better than you, and
she no more cares for her playfellow than the column on the right side of
the hearth yearns toward the one on the left, though they have stood
together under the same roof so long."

"Do you know what the marble feels?"

"Nothing, Jason, nothing at all; that is, just as much as Xanthe feels
for Phaon. But what's that noise outside the door?"

The house-keeper was still talking, when one of the folding doors opened
a little, and Dorippe called through the crack:

"May we come in? Here's a messenger from Protarch."

"Admit him," cried Semestre, eagerly. The door flew wide open, and the
two girls entered the women's apartment with Mopsus, the brother of the
lively Chloris. The latter was clinging to his arm, and as he came into
the hall removed the broad-brimmed travelling-hat from his brown locks,
while dark-skinned Dorippe went behind him and pushed the hesitating
youth across the threshold, as a boat is launched into the sea.

In reply to the house-keeper's excited questions, he related that
Protarch had sold his master's oil at Messina for as high a price as his
own, bought two new horses for his neighbor Cleon, and sent Mopsus
himself forward with them. If the wind didn't change, he would arrive
that day.

While speaking, he drew from the girdle which confined his blue chiton,
bordered with white, around his waist, a strip of papyrus, and handed it
to Semestre with a greeting from his master.

The house-keeper looked at both sides of the yellow sheet, turned it over
and over, held it close to her eyes, and then glanced hesitatingly at
Jason. He would know that she could not read; but Xanthe could decipher
written sentences, and the young girl must soon appear at breakfast.

"Shall I read it?" asked the old man.

"I could do so myself, if I chose," replied the house-keeper, drawing her
staff over the floor in sharp and blunt angles, as if she were writing.
"I could, but I don't like to hear news on an empty stomach, and what is
said in this letter concerns myself, I should suppose, and nobody else.
Go and call Xanthe to breakfast, Dorippe."

"I know what is in it," cried the girl, reluctant to part from her
companion's brother, whom she loved, and who still had a great deal to
tell her about his journey to Messina. "Mopsus has told us. Our master's
nephew, Leonax, Alciphron's son, will accompany his uncle and stay for a
week or longer as a guest, not over yonder with Protarch, but here in our
house. He is a, handsome youth, even taller than Phaon, and Mopsus says
Alciphron's wife, by our master's request, dipped deep into his purse at
Messina, and bought from her husband's merchant friends gold bracelets
and women's garments, such as matrons wear."

At these words a smile of joy and hope flitted over Semestre's wrinkled
face, like a spring breeze sweeping across a leafless garden. She no
longer thought of the harm a piece of news might do her empty stomach,
and, while mentally seeing the flutter of a matron's beautiful blue
garment and the flash of Xanthe's rich dowry, eagerly asked the welcome
messenger:

"Does she speak the truth? And what is this about the robes?"

"I brought the clothes myself," replied Mopsus, "and packed them in a
beautiful chest inlaid with ivory, like those newlywedded youths receive
with the bridal dowry. Praxilla, the handsome sister of Alciphron's wife,
also gave--"

"Go and call Xanthe!" cried Semestre, interrupting the messenger. She had
laughed softly several times while listening to his tale, and, when the
girls hastily withdrew with Mopsus, cast a triumphant glance at Jason.

Then, remembering how much was to be done to make fitting preparation for
the young suitor Leonax, she called loudly:

"Dorippe--Chloris! Chloris--Dorippe!" Neither of the maidens seemed to
hear, and, when obliged to resign all hope of an answer, she shrugged her
shoulders, and turning to Jason said:

"So young and so deaf; it is sad. Poor girls!"

"They like Mopsus better than you, and don't wish to hear," replied
Jason, laughing. "They can't," said Semestre, angrily. "Mopsus is a bold,
good-for-nothing fellow, whom I've often wanted to drive out of the
house, but I should like to see the person who refused me obedience. As
for your proposal, you have now heard distinctly enough that our girl is
intended for Leonax."

"But suppose Xanthe doesn't want Leonax, and prefers Phaon to the
stranger?"

"Alciphron's son a 'stranger' on the estates of his ancestors!" exclaimed
Semestre. "What don't we hear? But I must go to work to prepare the best
possible reception for Leonax, that he may feel from the first he is no
stranger here, but perfectly at home. Now go, if you choose, and offer
sacrifices to Aphrodite, that she may join the hearts of Xanthe and
Phaon. I'll stick to my spit."

"Then you'll be in the right place," cried Jason, "but you're not yet
turning it for Leonax's wedding-feast."

"And I promise you I'll prepare the roast for Phaon's," retorted
Semestre, "but not until the sacrifice of an animal I'm fattening myself
induces the foam-born goddess to kindle in Xanthe's heart sweet love for
Leonax."




CHAPTER II.

XANTHE.

"Xanthe, Xanthe!" called Semestre, a short time after. "Xanthe! Where is
the girl?"

The old woman had gone into the garden. Knowing how to use time to
advantage, and liking to do two things at once, while looking for her
nursling and repeatedly shouting the girl's name, she was gathering
vegetables and herbs, on which the dew of early morning still glittered
brightly.

While thus occupied, she was thinking far more of her favorite's son and
the roast meats, cakes, and sauces to be prepared for him, than of
Xanthe.

She wanted to provide for Leonax all the dishes his father had specially
liked when a child, for what a father relishes, she considered, will
please his children.

Twenty times she had stooped to pluck fresh lavender, green lettuce, and
young, red turnips, and each time, while straightening herself again by
her myrtle-staff, as well as a back bent by age would allow, called
"Xanthe, Xanthe!"

Though she at last threw her head back so far that the sun shone into her
open mouth, and the power of her lungs was not small, no answer came.
This did not make her uneasy, for the girl could not be far away, and
Semestre was used to calling her name more than once before she obeyed.

True, to-day the answer was delayed longer than usual. The maiden heard
the old woman's shrill, resounding voice very clearly, but heeded it no
more than the cackling of the hens, the screams of the peacocks, and the
cooing of the doves in the court-yard.

The house-keeper, she knew, was calling her to breakfast, and the bit of
dry bread she had taken with her was amply sufficient to satisfy her
hunger. Nay, if Semestre had tempted her with the sweetest cakes, she
would not have left her favorite nook by the spring now.

This spring gushed from the highest rock on her father's estate. She
often went there, especially when her heart was stirred, and it was a
lovely spot.

The sparkling water rushed from a cleft in the rocks, and, on the left of
the little bench, where Xanthe sat, formed a clear, transparent pool,
whose edges were inclosed by exquisitely-polished, white-marble blocks.
Every reddish pebble, every smooth bit of snowy quartz, every point and
furrow and stripe on the pretty shells on its sandy bottom, was as
distinctly visible as if held before the eyes on the palm of the hand,
and yet the water was so deep that the gold circlet sparkling above the
elbow on Xanthe's round arm, nay, even the gems confining her peplum on
the shoulder, would have been wet had she tried to touch the bottom of
the basin with the tips of her fingers.

The water was green and clear as crystal, into which, while molten, bits
of emeralds had been cast to change them into liquid drops.

Farther on it flowed through a channel choked with all kinds of plants.
Close by the edges of the rivulet, which rushed swiftly down to the
valley, drooped delicate vines, that threw their tendrils over the stones
and flourished luxuriantly in the rocks amid thick, moist clumps of moss.
Dainty green plants, swayed to and fro by the plashing water, grew
everywhere on the bottom of the brook, and, wherever on its course it
could flow more smoothly, ferns, nodding gracefully, surrounded it like
ostrich-feathers waving about the cradle of a royal babe.

Xanthe liked to watch the stream disappear in the myrtle-grove.

When, sitting in her favorite nook, she turned her eyes downward, she
overlooked the broad gardens and fields of her father and uncle,
stretching on the right and left of the stream along the gentle slope of
the mountain, and the narrow plain by the sea.

The whole scene resembled a thick woolen carpet, whose green surface was
embroidered with white and yellow spots, or one of the baskets young
maidens bear on their heads at the feast of Demeter, and in which, piled
high above the edge, light and dark-hued fruit gleams forth from leaves
of every tint.

Groves of young pomegranate and myrtletrees, with vigorous shoots, stood
forth in strong relief against the silvery gray-green foliage of the
gnarled olive-trees.

Fragrant roses, glowing with a scarlet hue, as if the sun's fiery kiss
had called them to life, adorned bushes and hedges, while, blushing
faintly, as if a child's lips had waked them from slumber, the blossoms
of the peach and almond glimmered on the branches of the trees.

Tiny young green leaves were growing from the oddly-interwoven branches
of the fig-trees, to which clung the swelling pouches of the fruit.
Golden lemons glittered amid their strong, brilliant foliage, which had
survived the winter season; and long rows of blackish-green cypresses
rose straight and tall, like the grave voices of the chorus amid the
joyous revel. To Xanthe, gazing downward, her father's pine-wood seemed
like a camp full of arched, round tents, and, if she allowed her eyes to
wander farther, she beheld the motionless sea, whose broad surface, on
this pleasant morning, sparkled like polished sapphire, and everywhere
seemed striving to surpass with its own blue the color of the clear sky.
Ever and anon, like a tiny silver cloud floating across the firmament,
white sails glided by.

Pleasant green hills framed this lovely view. On their well-cultivated
slopes appeared here the white, glimmering walls of a temple; yonder
villages, houses, and cottages, like the herds and single sheep that he
half concealed by dense foliage.

Garlands of flowers surround the heads of happy mortals, and here the
house of every wealthy land-owner was inclosed by a hedge or garden.

Behind the hills rose the sharply-cut outlines of the naked cliffs of the
lofty, distant mountains, and the snowy head of sleeping Mount Etna
gleamed brightly through the mist.

Now, in the early morning, sea and garden, hills and distant mountains
were covered with a delicate veil of indescribable hue. It seemed as if
the sea had furnished the warp of this fabric, and the golden sun the
woof.

The scene was wondrously beautiful, but Xanthe had not gone to the spring
to gaze at the landscape; nay, she scarcely knew that it was lovely.

When the sea shone with the hue of the sky and lay motionless, as it did
to-day, she thought Glaucus, the god of the blue sea, was sunning himself
in pleasant slumber.

On other bright days when the waves and surges swelled, white foam
crowned their crests, and a never-ending succession of breakers dashed
upon the shore, she believed the fifty daughters of Nereus were pursuing
their sports under the clear water.

They were all lovely women, and full of exuberant gayety.

Some rocked quietly on the gleaming waves, others boldly swung themselves
on the backs of the bearded Tritons, and merrily urged them through the
flood.

When the surf beat roaring on the strand, Xanthe thought she could hear
these creatures guiding their course with their scaly tails and blowing
into shells, and many a glimmering foam-crest on a deep-blue wave was no
transparent bubble-no, the girl distinctly saw that it was the white
neck, the gleaming arm, or the snowy foot of one of Nereus's daughters.
She believed that she clearly distinguished them sporting joyously up and
down through the azure water, now plunging into the depths with their
feet, and now with their heads foremost, anon floating gently on the
surface of the waves. One held out her hand to another, and in so doing
their beautiful, rounded arms often gleamed beneath the crest of a surge.

Every day they practised new games, as the sea never looks precisely the
same; each hour it changed its hue, here, there, and everywhere, Light
streaks, like transparent bluish-green gauze, often ran through the
darker surface, which resembled a purplish-blue mantle of some costly
Phoenician stuff; the waves could flash black as the eye of night, and
white as Leucothea's neck.

Then Amphitrite appeared, with floating hair and resonant voice, and
beside her Poseidon with his four steeds.

Frowning sullenly, he struck them sharply with his lash, which whistled
through the air, and angrily thrust his trident deep into the sea.
Instantly the waves took hues of lighter brown, deeper yellow, and cloudy
gray, and the sea wore the aspect of a shallow pond with muddy bottom,
into which workmen hurl blocks of stone. The purity of the water was
sadly dimmed, and the billows dashed foaming toward the sky, threatening
in their violent assault to shatter the marble dike erected along the
shore. The Nereids, trembling, took refuge in the ever-calm depths, the
Tritons no longer used their hollow shells to blow gentle harmonies; nay,
they sent forth crashing war-songs, as if some hostile citadel were to be
assailed; while Amphitrite thrust both hands into her long, fluttering
hair, and with out-stretched head uttered her furious roar.

But to-day the sea was calm, and when Xanthe had reached the spring the
edges of the milk-white, light, fleecy clouds, towering one above another
on the summits of the loftier mountains, were still glowing with a rosy
light. It was the edge of the garment of the vanishing Eos, the leaves of
the blossoms scattered by the Hours in the pathway of the four steeds of
Helios, as they rose from the waves.

To day and at this hour the morning sunlight fell serenely on the tall
cypresses upon the hill, the trees in the garden swayed in the soft
breath of the morning breeze, and Xanthe nodded to them, for she thought
the beautiful Dryads living in the trees were greeting each other.

Often, with a brief prayer, she laid flowers or a round cake on the altar
that stood beside her seat, and which her ancestor had erected to the
nymph of the spring--but today she had not come for this.

Then what brought her to the hill so early? Did she visit the spring to
admire her own image in its mirror-like surface?

At home she was rarely permitted such an indulgence, for, whenever she
looked in the polished metal-disk, Semestre used to say:

"If a girl often peers into such useless things, she'll certainly see a
fool's image in them."

Forbidden things are charming, yet Xanthe rarely looked into this liquid
mirror, though she might have enjoyed gazing at it frequently, for her
figure was tall and slender as the trunk of a cypress, her thick fair
hair glittered like gold, the oval of her face was exquisitely rounded,
long lashes shaded the large blue eyes that could conceal no emotion
which stirred her soul, and when she was alone seemed to ask: "What have
the gods allotted for my future?" Yet in their gaze might often be read
the answer "Something delightful, surely."

And yet Xanthe did not come to the spring to paint pictures of her
future; on the contrary, she came to be sad, and shed tears unrebuked.
She did not weep passionately, but the big salt drops welled slowly from
her eyes and ran down her young cheeks, as drop after drop of shining sap
flows down the trunk of a wounded birch-tree.

Yes, Xanthe felt very sorrowful, yet everything that surrounded her was
so bright, and at her home laughter was rarely silent, while her own
often rang out no less merrily than that of lively Chloris and
dark-skinned Dorippe.

Her sick father, now slowly recovering, could refuse her nothing, and, if
Semestre tried to do so, Xanthe usually succeeded in having her own way.
There was no lack of festivals and joyous dances, and to none of her
companions did the youths present more beautiful ribbons, to no one in
the circle did they prefer to offer their hands. She was the fairest of
all the maidens far and near, and Ismene, Phryxus's wife, had said that
her laughter was gay enough to make a cripple dance. Ismene had a
daughter herself just Xanthe's age, so it must probably have been true.

Then why, in the name of all the gods, was Xanthe sad?

Is any cause required to explain it?

Must a maiden have met with misfortune, to make her feel a longing to
weep? Certainly not.

Nay, the gayest rattle-brain is the least likely to escape such a desire.

When the sky has long shone with unclouded splendor, and the air is so
wonderfully clear that even the most distant mountain-peaks are
distinctly visible, rain is not long delayed; and who can laugh heartily
a long time without finally shedding tears like a mourner?

Whoever endures a severe though not the deepest affliction, whoever is
permitted to reach the topmost summit of joy, and a girl who feels
love-these three Heaven favors with the blessing of tears.

Had Eros's arrow struck Xanthe's young heart too?

It was possible, though she would not confess it even to herself, and
only yesterday had denied it, without the quiver of an eyelash.

Yet, if she did love a youth, and for his sake had climbed to the spring,
he must doubtless dwell in the reddish house, standing on a beautiful
level patch of ground on the right of the brook, between the sea and the
pool; for she glanced toward it again and again, and, except the
servants, no one lived under its roof save the aged steward Jason, and
Phaon, her uncle's son. Protarch himself had gone to Messina, with his
own and her father's oil.

To age is allotted the alms of reverence, to youth the gift of love, and,
of the three men who lived in the house on Xanthe's right-hand, only one
could lay claim to such a gift, and he had an unusually good right to do
so.

Xanthe was thinking of Phaon as she sat beside the spring, but her brow
wore such a defiant frown that she did not bear the most distant
resemblance to a maiden giving herself up to tender emotions.

Now the door of the reddish house opened, and, rising hastily, she looked
toward it. A slave came cautiously out, bearing a large jar with handles,
made of brown clay, adorned with black figures.

What had the high-shouldered graybeard done, that she stamped her foot so
angrily on the ground, and buried the upper row of her snow-white teeth
deep in her under-lip, as if stifling some pang?

No one is less welcome than the unbidden intruder, who meets us in the
place of some one for whom we ardently long, and Xanthe did not wish to
see the slave, but Phaon, his master's son.

She had nothing to say to the youth; she would have rushed away if he had
ventured to seek her by the spring, but she wanted to see him, wanted to
learn whether Semestre had told the truth, when she said Phaon intended
to marry a wealthy heiress, whose hand his father was seeking in Messina.
The house-keeper had declared the night before that he only wooed the
ugly creature for the sake of her money, and now took advantage of his
father's absence to steal out of the house evening after evening, as soon
as the fire was lighted on the hearth. And the fine night-bird did not
return till long past sunrise, no doubt from mad revels with that crazy
Hermias and other wild fellows from Syracuse. They probably understood
how to loosen his slow tongue.

Then the old woman described what occurred at such banquets, and when she
mentioned the painted flute-players, with whom the dissipated city youths
squandered their fathers' money, and the old house-keeper called
attention to the fact that Phaon already wandered about as stupidly and
sleepily as if he were a docile pupil of the notorious Hermias, Xanthe
fairly hated her, and almost forgot the respect she owed to her gray
hair, and told her to her face she was a liar and slanderer.

But the girl had been unable to speak, for Phaon's secret courtship of
the Messina heiress had deeply wounded her pride, and he really did look
more weary and dreamy than usual.

Semestre's praises of her cousin, the young Leonax, Xanthe had heard as
little as the chirping of the crickets on the hearth, and before the
house-keeper had finished speaking she rose, and, without bidding her
good-night, turned her back and left the women's apartment.

Ere lying down to rest in her own room, she paced up and down before her
couch, then began to loosen her thick hair so carelessly that the violent
pulling actually hurt her, and tied so tightly under her chin the pretty
scarlet kerchief worn over her golden tresses at night to prevent them
from tangling, that she was obliged to unfasten it again to keep from
stifling.

The sandals, from which she had released her slender feet, and which,
obedient to her dead mother's teaching, she usually placed beside the
chair where her clothes lay smoothly folded, she flung into a corner of
the room, still thinking of Phaon, the Messina heiress, and her
playfellow's shameful conduct. She had intended to discover whether
Semestre spoke the truth, and in the stillness of the night consider what
she must do to ascertain how much Phaon was concerned in his father's
suit.

But the god Morpheus willed otherwise, for scarcely had Xanthe laid down
to rest, extinguished her little lamp, and wrapped herself closely in the
woolen coverlet, when sleep overpowered her.

The young girl waked just before sunrise, instantly thought of Phaon, of
the heiress, and of Semestre's wicked words, and hastily went out to the
spring.

From there she could see whether her uncle's son returned home from the
city with staggering steps, or would, as usual, come out of the house
early in the morning to curry and water his brown steeds, which no slave
was ever permitted to touch.

But he did not appear, and, in his place, the high-shouldered servant
entered the court-yard.

If the young girl was usually sad here, because she liked to be
melancholy, to-day grief pierced her heart like a knife, and the bit of
white bread she raised to her lips because, with all her sorrow, she was
hungry, tasted bitter, as if dipped in wormwood.

She had no need to salt it; the tears that fell on it did that.

Xanthe heard the house-keeper's calls, but did not obey immediately, and
perhaps would not have heeded them at all if she had not noticed--yes,
she was not mistaken--that, in the full meaning of the words, she had
begun to weep like a chidden child.

She was weeping for anger; and soon it vexed her so much to think that
she should cry, that fresh tears streamed down her cheeks.

But not many, for, ere her beautiful eyes grew red, they were dry again,
as is the custom of eyes when they are young and see anything new.

Two children, a vineyard-watchman's son and a herdsman's little daughter,
approached the spring, talking loudly together.

They had decked themselves with fresh, green vines twined about their