As he spoke the gate-keeper’s wife came timidly up to the physician and the sick child, pushed her rough and tangled hair off her forehead a little, crossed her lean arms at full length behind her back, and, looking down with out-stretched neck at the boy, stared in dumb amazement at the wet cloths.  Then she timidly enquired: 

“Are the evil spirits driven out of the child?”

“Certainly,” replied the physician.  “Klea there has exorcised them, and I have helped her; now you know.”

“Then I may go out for a little while?  I have to sweep the pavement of the forecourt.”

Klea nodded assent, and when the woman had disappeared the physician said: 

“How many evil demons we have to deal with, alas! and how few good ones.  Men are far more ready and willing to believe in mischievous spirits than in kind or helpful ones; for when things go ill with them—­and it is generally their own fault when they do—­it comforts them and flatters their vanity if only they can throw the blame on the shoulders of evil spirits; but when they are well to do, when fortune smiles on them of course, they like to ascribe it to themselves, to their own cleverness or their superior insight, and they laugh at those who admonish them of the gratitude they owe to the protecting and aiding demons.  I, for my part, think more of the good than of the evil spirits, and you, my child, without doubt are one of the very best.

“You must change the compress every quarter of an hour, and between whiles go out into the open air, and let the fresh breezes fan your bosom—­your cheeks look pale.  At mid-day go to your own little room, and try to sleep.  Nothing ought to be overdone, so you are to obey me.”

Klea replied with a friendly and filial nod, and Imhotep stroked down her hair; then he left; she remained alone in the stuffy hot room, which grew hotter every minute, while she changed the wet cloths for the sick child, and watched with delight the diminishing hoarseness and difficulty of his breathing.  From time to time she was overcome by a slight drowsiness, and closed her eyes for a few minutes, but only for a short while; and this half-awake and half-asleep condition, chequered by fleeting dreams, and broken only by an easy and pleasing duty, this relaxation of the tension of mind and body, had a certain charm of which, through it all, she remained perfectly conscious.  Here she was in her right place; the physicians kind words had done her good, and her anxiety for the little life she loved was now succeeded by a well-founded hope of its preservation.

During the night she had already come to a definite resolution, to explain to the high-priest that she could not undertake the office of the twin-sisters, who wept by the bier of Osiris, and that she would rather endeavor to earn bread by the labor of her hands for herself and Irene—­for that Irene should do any real work never entered her mind—­at Alexandria, where even the blind and the maimed could find occupation.  Even this prospect, which only yesterday had terrified her, began now to smile upon her, for it opened to her the possibility of proving independently the strong energy which she felt in herself.