At these words she broke off her soliloquy, for she heard Irene’s voice, a sound that must have had a favorable effect on her spirit, for she paused, and the bitter expression her beautiful features had but just now worn disappeared as she murmured, drawing a deep breath: 

“I am not utterly bereft and wretched so long as I have her, and can hear her voice.”

Irene, on her road home, had given the modest offerings of the anchorite Phibis into the charge of one of the temple-servants to lay before the altar of Serapis, and now as she came into the room she hid the platter with the Roman’s donation behind her, and while still in the doorway, called out to her sister: 

“Guess now, what have I here?”

“Bread and dates from Serapion,” replied Klea.

“Oh, dear no!” cried the other, holding out the plate to her sister, “the very nicest dainties, fit for gods and kings.  Only feel this peach, does not it feel as soft as one of little Philo’s cheeks?  If I could always provide such a substitute you would wish I might eat up your breakfast every day.  And now do you know who gave you all this?  No, that you will never guess!  The tall Roman gave them me, the same you had the violets from yesterday.”

Klea’s face turned crimson, and she said shortly and decidedly: 

“How do you know that?”

“Because he told me so himself,” replied Irene in a very altered tone, for her sister’s eyes were fixed upon her with an expression of stern gravity, such as Irene had never seen in her before.

“And where are the violets?” asked Klea.

“He took them, and his friend gave me this pomegranate-flower,” stammered Irene.  “He himself wanted to give it me, but the Greek—­a handsome, merry man—­would not permit it, and laid the flower there on the platter.  Take it—­but do not look at me like that any longer, for I cannot bear it!”

“I do not want it,” said her sister, but not sharply; then, looking down, she asked in a low voice:  “Did the Roman keep the violets?”

“He kept—­no, Klea—­I will not tell you a lie!  He flung them over the house, and said such rough things as he did it, that I was frightened and turned my back upon him quickly, for I felt the tears coming into my eyes.  What have you to do with the Roman?  I feel so anxious, so frightened—­as I do sometimes when a storm is gathering and I am afraid of it.  And how pale your lips are! that comes of long fasting, no doubt—­eat now, as much as you can.  But Klea! why do you look at me so—­and look so gloomy and terrible?  I cannot bear that look, I cannot bear it!”

Irene sobbed aloud, and her sister went up to her, stroked her soft hair from her brow, kissed her kindly, and said: 

“I am not angry with you, child, and did not mean to hurt you.  If only I could cry as you do when clouds overshadow my heart, the blue sky would shine again with me as soon as it does with you.  Now dry your eyes, go up to the temple, and enquire at what hour we are to go to the singing-practice, and when the procession is to set out.”