Imhotep, the most famous of the priest-physicians of the temple of Asclepius—­a man who was as learned in Greek as in Egyptian medical lore, and who had been known by the name of “the modern Herophilus” since King Philometor had summoned him from Alexandria to Memphis—­had long since been watchful of the gradual development of the dormant intelligence of the gate-keeper’s child, whom he saw every day in his visits to the temple.  Now, not long after Zoe had quitted the house, he came in to see the sick child for the third time.  Klea was still holding the boy on her lap when he entered.  On a wooden stool in front of her stood a brazier of charcoal, and on it a small copper kettle the physician had brought with him; to this a long tube was attached.  The tube was in two parts, joined together by a leather joint, also tubular, in such a way that the upper portion could be turned in any direction.  Klea from time to time applied it to the breast of the child, and, in obedience to Imhotep’s instructions, made the little one inhale the steam that poured out of it.

“Has it had the soothing effect it ought to have?” asked the physician.

“Yes, indeed, I think so,” replied Klea, “There is not so much noise in the chest when the poor little fellow draws his breath.”

The old man put his ear to the child’s mouth, laid his hand on his brow, and said: 

“If the fever abates I hope for the best.  This inhaling of steam is an excellent remedy for these severe catarrhs, and a venerable one besides; for in the oldest writings of Hermes we find it prescribed as an application in such cases.  But now he has had enough of it.  Ah! this steam—­this steam!  Do you know that it is stronger than horses or oxen, or the united strength of a whole army of giants?  That diligent enquirer Hero of Alexandria discovered this lately.

“But our little invalid has had enough of it, we must not overheat him.  Now, take a linen cloth—­that one will do though it is not very fine.  Fold it together, wet it nicely with cold water—­there is some in that miserable potsherd there—­and now I will show you how to lay it on the child’s throat.

“You need not assure me that you understand me, Klea, for you have hands—­neat hands—­and patience without end!  Sixty-five years have I lived, and have always had good health, but I could almost wish to be ill for once, in order to be nursed by you.  That poor child is well off better than many a king’s child when it is sick; for him hireling nurses, no doubt, fetch and do all that is necessary, but one thing they cannot give, for they have it not; I mean the loving and indefatigable patience by which you have worked a miracle on this child’s mind, and are now working another on his body.  Aye, aye, my girl; it is to you and not me that this woman will owe her child if it is preserved to her.  Do you hear me, woman? and tell your husband so too; and if you do not reverence Klea as a goddess, and do not lay your hands beneath her feet, may you be—­no—­I will wish you no ill, for you have not too much of the good things of life as it is!”