and when she had refused to express what image she fancied Ione to resemble, it was partly, perhaps, that whatever was bright and soft in nature she had already combined with the thought of Glaucus.  If any of my readers ever loved at an age which they would now smile to remember—­an age in which fancy forestalled the reason, let them say whether that love, among all its strange and complicated delicacies, was not, above all other and later passions, susceptible of jealousy?  I seek not here the cause:  I know that it is commonly the fact.

When Glaucus returned to Pompeii, Nydia had told another year of life; that year, with its sorrows, its loneliness, its trials, had greatly developed her mind and heart; and when the Athenian drew her unconsciously to his breast, deeming her still in soul as in years a child—­when he kissed her smooth cheek, and wound his arm round her trembling frame, Nydia felt suddenly, and as by revelation, that those feelings she had long and innocently cherished were of love.  Doomed to be rescued from tyranny by Glaucus—­doomed to take shelter under his roof—­doomed to breathe, but for so brief a time, the same air—­and doomed, in the first rush of a thousand happy, grateful, delicious sentiments of an overflowing heart, to hear that he loved another; to be commissioned to that other, the messenger, the minister; to feel all at once that utter nothingness which she was—­which she ever must be, but which, till then, her young mind had not taught her—­that utter nothingness to him who was all to her; what wonder that, in her wild and passionate soul, all the elements jarred discordant; that if love reigned over the whole, it was not the love which is born of the more sacred and soft emotions?  Sometimes she dreaded only lest Glaucus should discover her secret; sometimes she felt indignant that it was not suspected:  it was a sign of contempt—­could he imagine that she presumed so far?  Her feelings to Ione ebbed and flowed with every hour; now she loved her because he did; now she hated him for the same cause.  There were moments when she could have murdered her unconscious mistress; moments when she could have laid down life for her.  These fierce and tremulous alternations of passion were too severe to be borne long.  Her health gave way, though she felt it not—­her cheek paled—­her step grew feebler—­tears came to her eyes more often, and relieved her less.

One morning, when she repaired to her usual task in the garden of the Athenian, she found Glaucus under the columns of the peristyle, with a merchant of the town; he was selecting jewels for his destined bride.  He had already fitted up her apartment; the jewels he bought that day were placed also within it—­they were never fated to grace the fair form of Ione; they may be seen at this day among the disinterred treasures of Pompeii, in the chambers of the studio at Naples.

’Come hither, Nydia; put down thy vase, and come hither.  Thou must take this chain from me—­stay—­there, I have put it on.  There, Servilius, does it not become her?’