Her father, Leonax, had been one of the most distinguished artists of the day, and Barine had inherited from him the elastic artist temperament which speedily rebounds from the heaviest pressure.  To him also she owed the rare gift of song, which had been carefully cultivated and had already secured her the first position in the woman’s chorus at the festival of the great goddesses of the city.  Every one was full of her praises, and after she had sung the Yalemos in the palace over the waxen image of the favourite of the gods, slain by the boar, her name was eagerly applauded.  To have heard her was esteemed a privilege, for she sang only in her own house or at religious ceremonials “for the honour of the gods.”

The Queen, too, had heard her, and, after the Adonis festival, her uncle Arius had presented her to Antony, who expressed his admiration with all the fervour of his frank nature, and afterwards came to her house a second time, accompanied by his son Antyllus.  Doubtless he would have called on her frequently and tested upon her heart his peculiar power over women, had he not been compelled to leave the city on the day after his last visit.

Berenike had reproved her brother for bringing the Queen’s lover to Barine, for her anxiety was increased by the repeated visits of Antony’s son, and still more aroused by that of Caesarion, who was presented by Antyllus.

These youths were not numbered among the guests whose presence she welcomed and whose conversation afforded her pleasure.  It was flattering that they should honour her simple home by their visits, but she knew that Caesarion came without his tutor’s knowledge, and perceived, by the expression of his eyes, what drew him to her daughter.  Besides, Berenike, in rearing the two children, who had been the source of so much anxiety had lost the joyous confidence which had characterized her own youth.  Whenever life presented any new phase, she saw the dark side first.  If a burning candle stood before her, the shadow of the candlestick caught her eye before the light.  Her whole mental existence became a chain of fears, but the kind-hearted woman loved her children too tenderly to permit them to see it.  Only it was a relief to her heart when some of her evil forebodings were realized, to say that she had foreseen it all.

No trace of this was legible in her face, a countenance still pretty and pleasing in its unruffled placidity.  She talked very little, but what she did say was sensible, and proved how attentively she understood how to listen.  So she was welcome among Barine’s guests.  Even the most distinguished received something from her, because he felt that the quiet woman understood him.