advice that sprang out of his own sorrow and pessimism.  It was no use, ran his letters, for a woman like her to try and battle against the evident decrees of Fortune.  He was a man, and must fight his battle or die his death bravely; but she was not called on for this.  There was no reason why she should not really enjoy herself, in the way most of the world thought she was enjoying herself.  She had better wed Lucius Ahenobarbus, and stoop to the inevitable.  Her husband could go his way and she go hers, and none would complain.  Perhaps the Epicureans were right,—­this life was all, and it was best to suck from it all the sweets one might, and not be disturbed by pricks of conscience.  Drusus and Cornelia were not lovers of a modern romance, to entertain fantastic ideas of love and duty, to throw themselves away for a fancy, or tie themselves with vows which militated against almost every worldly advantage.  They were both Romans, and by that we mean eminently practical persons, faithful to one another, pure and noble in their affections, but habituated to look a situation in the face and accept the plain consequences.  In this spirit Drusus had advised as he did, and Cornelia became discouraged accordingly.  Her reason told her to submit to the inevitable.  Her heart cried out against it.  And so she continued to finger the hilt of the little dagger, and look at its keen poison-smeared edge.

But one day at the end of this dreary period Agias appeared before his mistress with a smiling face.

“Don’t raise high hopes, my lady, but trust me.  I have struck a path that I’m sure Pratinas will wish I’d never travelled.”  And that was all he would say, but laid his finger on his lips as though it was a great secret.  When he was gone, for Cornelia the sun shone brighter, and the tinkling of the water in the fountain in the peristylium sounded sweeter than before.  After all, there had come a gleam of hope.

Cornelia needed the encouragement.  That same day when Herennia called to see her, that excellent young lady—­for not the least reason in the world—­had been full of stories of poisoning and murders, how some years ago a certain Balbutius of Larinum was taken off, it was said, at a wedding feast of a friend for whom the poison had been intended; and then again she had to tell how, at another time, poison had been put in a bit of bread of which the victim partook.  The stories were old ones and perhaps nothing more than second-hand scandal, but they were enough to make poor Cornelia miserable; so she was doubly rejoiced when Agias that evening pressed his lips again and smiled and said briefly:  “All is going well.  We shall have the root of the matter in a few days.”