that worthy Hellene, be it said, never declined an invitation to dine with a friend—­and Agias timed his visits accordingly.  He taught Artemisia to play the cithera and to sing, and she made such rapid progress under his tutoring that the unconscious Pratinas commended her efforts to acquire the accomplishments he wished.  And Agias was never so happy as when those bright eyes were hanging on his lips or that merry tongue was chattering a thousand pointless remarks or jests.

Yes, Agias found himself in a condition when he could well ask to have no change.  The possibility that Pratinas would come home, and put an end to the romance once and for all, was just great enough to give the affair the zest of a dangerous adventure.  Despite Sesostris’s warnings that Artemisia might at any time be sold away by her pseudo-uncle, Agias could not discover that that danger was imminent enough to need frustration.  He was content to live himself and to let Artemisia live, basking in the stolen sunshine of the hour, and to let the thought of the approaching shadows fade out of his mind.

Another person who saw the sunshine rather brighter than before was Pisander.  That excellent philosopher had received his share of the gratitude Drusus had bestowed on his deliverers.  But he was still in the service of Valeria, for Drusus saw that he had admirable opportunities for catching the stray bits of political gossip that inevitably intermixed themselves with the conversation of Valeria and her circle.  Pisander had continued to read Plato to his mistress, and to groan silently at her frivolity; albeit, he did not groan so hopelessly as before, because he had good money in his pouch and knew where to procure more when he needed it.

So Agias enjoyed himself.  He was a youth; a Pagan youth; and in his short life he had seen many a scene of wickedness and shame.  Yet there was nothing unholy in the affection which he found was daily growing stronger and stronger for Artemisia.  She was a pure, innocent flower, that by the very whiteness of her simple sweet presence drove away anything that “defiled or made a lie.”  Agias did not worship her; she was too winning; too cunning and pretty to attract the least reverence; but in her company the young Greek was insensibly raised pinnacles above the murky moral atmosphere in which most men and youths of his station walked.

It was all like an Idyl of Theocritus; with the tenement of Pratinas for a shepherd’s hut; and Sesostris for a black-backed sheep to whom the herdsmen and the nymph of his love could play on “oaten reed.”  At first, Agias had never dreamed of telling a word of his affection to Artemisia.  In truth, it was very hard to tell, for she, with an absolute innocence, took all his advances for far more than they were worth; told him that next to her “uncle and dear Sesostris” he was quite the best friend she had; that she loved him, and was glad to hear him say that he loved her.