LITMIR.BIZ

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sundown, and the only pain it will leave behind, he will feel under his wig. Only leave him to sleep.”

      “But it is so cold here.”

      “Take my cloak and cover him with that.”

      “Then you will be frozen.”

      “I am used to it. How long has Keraunus had dealings with the doctor?”

      Selene related the accident that had befallen her father and how justified were her fears. The sculptor listened to her in silence and then said in a quite altered tone:

      “I am truly sorry to hear it. Let us put some cold water on his forehead, and until the slaves come back again I will change the wet cloth every quarter of an hour. Here is a jar and a handkerchief—good, they might have been left on purpose. Perhaps, too, it will wake him, and if not the people shall carry him to his own rooms.”

      “Disgraceful, disgraceful!” sighed the girl.

      “Not at all; the high-priest of Serapis even is sometimes unwell. Only let me see to it.”

      “It will excite him afresh if he sees you. He is so angry with you—so very angry.”

      “Omnipotent Zeus, what harm have I done you, fat father! The gods forgive the sins of the wise, and a man will not forgive the fault committed by a stupid lad in a moment of imprudence.”

      “You mocked at him.”

      “I set a clay head that was like him on the shoulders of the fat Silenus near the gate, that had lost its own head. It was my first piece of independent work.”

      “But you did it to vex my father.”

      “Certainly not, Selene; I was delighted with the joke and nothing more.”

      “But you knew how touchy he is.”

      “And does a wild boy of fifteen ever reflect on the consequences of his audacity? If he had but given me a thrashing his annoyance would have discharged itself like thunder and lightning, and the air would have been clear again. But, as it was, he cut the face off the work with a knife, and deliberately trod the pieces under foot as they lay on the ground. He gave me one single blow—with his thumb—which I still feel, it is true, and then he treated me and my parents with such scorn, so coldly and hardly, with such bitter contempt—”

      “He never is really violent, but wrath seems to eat him inwardly, and I have rarely seen him so angry as he was that time.”

      “But if he had only settled the account with me on the spot! but my father was by, and hot words fell like rain, and my mother added her share, and from that time there has been utter hostility between our little house and you up here. What hurt me most was that you and your sister were forbidden to come to see us and to play with me.”

      “That has spoilt many pleasant hours for me, too.”

      “It was nice when we used to dress up in my father’s theatrical finery and cloaks.”

      “And when you made us dolls out of clay.”.

      “Or when we performed the Olympian games.”

      “I was always the teacher when we played at school with our little brothers and sisters.”

      “Arsinoe gave you most trouble.”

      “Oh! and what fun when we went fishing!”

      “And when we brought home the fishes and mother gave us meal and raisins to cook them.”

      “Do you remember the festival of Adonis, and how I stopped the runaway horse of that Numidian officer?”

      “The horse had knocked over Arsinoe, and when we got home mother gave you an almond-cake.”

      “And your ungrateful sister bit a great piece out of it and left me only a tiny morsel. Is Arsinoe as pretty as she promised to become? It is two years since I last saw her; at our place we never have time to leave work till it is dark. For eight months I had to work for the master at Ptolemais, and often saw the old folks but once in the month.”

      “We go out very little, too, and we are not allowed to go into your parents’ house. My sister—”

      “Is she pretty?”

      “Yes, I think she is. Whenever she can get hold of a piece of ribbon she plaits it in her hair, and the men in the street turn round to look at her. She is sixteen now.”

      “Sixteen! What, little Arsinoe! Why, how long then is it since your mother died?”

      “Four years and eight months.”

      “You remember the date very exactly; such a mother is not easily forgotten, indeed. She was a good woman and a kinder I never met. I know, too, that she tried to mollify your father’s feeling, but she could not succeed, and then she need must die!”

      “Yes,” said Selene gloomily. “How could the gods decree it! They are often more cruel than the hardest hearted man.”

      “Your poor little brothers and sisters!”

      The girl bowed her head sadly and Pollux stood for some time with his eyes fixed on the ground. Then he raised his head and exclaimed:

      “I have something for you that will please you.”

      “Nothing ever pleases me now she is dead.”

      “Yes, yes indeed,” replied the young sculptor eagerly. “I could not forget the good soul, and once in my idle moments I modelled her bust from memory. To-morrow I will bring it to you.”

      “Oh!” cried Selene, and her large heavy eyes brightened with a sunny gleam.

      “Now, is not it true, you are pleased?”

      “Yes indeed, very much. But when my father learns that it is you who have given me the portrait—”

      “Is he capable of destroying it?”

      “If he does not destroy it, he will not suffer it in the house as soon as he knows that you made it.” Pollux took the handkerchief from the steward’s head, moistened it afresh, and exclaimed as he rearranged it on the forehead of the sleeping man:

      “I have an idea. All that matters is that my bust should serve to remind you often of your mother; the bust need not stand in your rooms. The busts of the women of the house of Ptolemy stand on the rotunda, which you can see from your balcony, and which you can pass whenever you please; some of them are badly mutilated and must be got rid of. I will undertake to restore the Berenice and put your mother’s head on her shoulders. Then you have only to go out and look at her. Will that do?”

      “Yes, Pollux; you are a good man.”

      “So I told you just now. I am beginning to improve. But time—time! if I am to undertake to repair Berenice I must begin by saving the minutes.”

      “Go back to your work now; I know how to apply a wet compress only too well.”

      With these words Selene threw back her mantle over her shoulders so as to leave her hands free for use, and stood with her slender figure, her pale face, and the fine broadly-flowing folds of rich stuff, like a statue in the eyes of the young sculptor.

      “Stop—stay so—just so,” cried Pollux to the astonished girl, so loudly and eagerly that she was startled.

      “Your cloak hangs with a wonderfully-free flow from your shoulders—in the name of all the gods do not touch it. If only I might model from it I should in a few minutes gain a whole day for our Berenice. I will wet the handkerchief at intervals in the pauses.” Without waiting for Selene’s answer the sculptor hastened into his nook and returned first with one of the lamps he worked by in each hand, and some small tools in his mouth, and then fetched his wax model which he placed on the outer side of the table, behind which the steward was sleeping. The tapers were put

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