‘I mean this,’ added Nydia, in a calmer tone; ’the lightest word of coldness from thee will sadden him—­the lightest kindness will rejoice.  If it be the first, let the slave take back thine answer; if it be the last, let me—­I will return this evening.’

‘And why, Nydia,’ asked Ione, evasively, ’Wouldst thou be the bearer of my letter?’

‘It is so, then!’ said Nydia.  ’Ah! how could it be otherwise; who could be unkind to Glaucus?’

‘My child,’ said Ione, a little more reservedly than before, ’thou speakest warmly—­Glaucus, then, is amiable in thine eyes?’

’Noble Ione!  Glaucus has been that to me which neither fortune nor the gods have been—­a friend!’

The sadness mingled with dignity with which Nydia uttered these simple words, affected the beautiful Ione:  she bent down and kissed her.  ’Thou art grateful, and deservedly so; why should I blush to say that Glaucus is worthy of thy gratitude?  Go, my Nydia—­take to him thyself this letter—­but return again.  If I am from home when thou returnest—­as this evening, perhaps, I shall be—­thy chamber shall be prepared next my own.  Nydia, I have no sister—­wilt thou be one to me?’ The Thessalian kissed the hand of Ione, and then said, with some embarrassment: 

‘One favor, fair Ione—­may I dare to ask it?’

‘Thou canst not ask what I will not grant,’ replied the Neapolitan.

‘They tell me,’ said Nydia, ’that thou art beautiful beyond the loveliness of earth.  Alas!  I cannot see that which gladdens the world!  Wilt thou suffer me, then, to pass my hand over thy face?—­that is my sole criterion of beauty, and I usually guess aright.’

She did not wait for the answer of Ione, but, as she spoke, gently and slowly passed her hand over the bending and half-averted features of the Greek—­features which but one image in the world can yet depicture and recall—­that image is the mutilated, but all-wondrous, statue in her native city—­her own Neapolis—­that Parian face, before which all the beauty of the Florentine Venus is poor and earthly—­that aspect so full of harmony—­of youth—­of genius—­of the soul—­which modern critics have supposed the representation of Psyche.

Her touch lingered over the braided hair and polished brow—­over the downy and damask cheek—­over the dimpled lip—­the swan-like and whitish neck.  ‘I know now, that thou art beautiful,’ she said:  ’and I can picture thee to my darkness henceforth, and for ever!’

When Nydia left her, Ione sank into a deep but delicious reverie.  Glaucus then loved her; he owned it—­yes, he loved her.  She drew forth again that dear confession; she paused over every word, she kissed every line; she did not ask why he had been maligned, she only felt assured that he had been so.  She wondered how she had ever believed a syllable against him; she wondered how the Egyptian had been enabled to exercise a power against Glaucus; she felt a chill