‘Do not ask!’ said she, coloring violently.  ’I am a thing full of faults and humors; you know I am but a child—­you say so often:  is it from a child that you can expect a reason for every folly?’

’But, prettiest, you will soon be a child no more; and if you would have us treat you as a woman, you must learn to govern these singular impulses and gales of passion.  Think not I chide:  no, it is for your happiness only I speak.’

‘It is true,’ said Nydia, ’I must learn to govern myself I must bide, I must suppress, my heart.  This is a woman’s task and duty; methinks her virtue is hypocrisy.’

‘Self-control is not deceit, my Nydia,’ returned the Athenian; and that is the virtue necessary alike to man and to woman; it is the true senatorial toga, the badge of the dignity it covers!’

’Self-control! self-control!  Well, well, what you say is right!  When I listen to you, Glaucus, my wildest thoughts grow calm and sweet, and a delicious serenity falls over me.  Advise, ah! guide me ever, my preserver!’

’Thy affectionate heart will be thy best guide, Nydia, when thou hast learned to regulate its feelings.’

‘Ah! that will be never,’ sighed Nydia, wiping away her tears.

‘Say not so:  the first effort is the only difficult one.’

‘I have made many first efforts,’ answered Nydia, innocently.  ’But you, my Mentor, do you find it so easy to control yourself?  Can you conceal, can you even regulate, your love for Ione?’

‘Love! dear Nydia:  ah! that is quite another matter,’ answered the young preceptor.

‘I thought so!’ returned Nydia, with a melancholy smile.  ’Glaucus, wilt thou take my poor flowers?  Do with them as thou wilt—­thou canst give them to Ione,’ added she, with a little hesitation.

‘Nay, Nydia,’ answered Glaucus, kindly, divining something of jealousy in her language, though he imagined it only the jealousy of a vain and susceptible child; ’I will not give thy pretty flowers to any one.  Sit here and weave them into a garland; I will wear it this night:  it is not the first those delicate fingers have woven for me.’

The poor girl delightedly sat down beside Glaucus.  She drew from her girdle a ball of the many-colored threads, or rather slender ribands, used in the weaving of garlands, and which (for it was her professional occupation) she carried constantly with her, and began quickly and gracefully to commence her task.  Upon her young cheeks the tears were already dried, a faint but happy smile played round her lips—­childlike, indeed, she was sensible only of the joy of the present hour:  she was reconciled to Glaucus:  he had forgiven her—­she was beside him—­he played caressingly with her silken hair—­his breath fanned her cheek—­Ione, the cruel Ione, was not by—­none other demanded, divided, his care.  Yes, she was happy and forgetful; it was one of the few moments in her brief and troubled