It was difficult to begin the conversation anew, and when, spite of many efforts, it would not flow freely, the shout of the overseer, which reached his ear through the opening of the roof, urging the men to work, was like a deliverance.  Promising to return again soon, as eagerly as if he had been requested to do so, he took his leave and opened the door leading into the adjoining room.  But on the threshold he started back, and Helena, who had followed him, did the same, for there stood his friend Dion, and Barine’s beautiful head lay on his breast, while his hand rested as if in benediction on her fair hair.  And—­no, Gorgias was not mistaken-the slender frame of the lovely woman, whose exuberant vivacity had so often borne him and others away with it, trembled as if shaken by deep and painful emotion.

When Dion perceived his friend, and Barine raised her head, turning her face towards him, it was indeed wet with tears, but their source could not be sorrow; for her blue eyes were sparkling with a happy light.

Yet Gorgias found something in her features which he was unable to express in words—­the reflection of the ardent gratitude that had taken possession of her soul and filled it absolutely.  While seeking the architect, Dion had met Barine, who was on her way to her grandparents, and what he had dreaded the day before happened.  The first glance from her eyes which met his forced the decisive question from his lips.

In brief, earnest words he confessed his love for her, and his desire to make her his own, as the pride and ornament of his house.

Then, in the intensity of her bliss, her eyes overflowed and, under the spell of a great miracle wrought in her behalf, she found no words to answer; but Dion had approached, clasped her right hand in both of his, and frankly acknowledged how, with the image of his strict mother before his eyes, he had wavered and hesitated until love had overmastered him.  Now, full of the warmest confidence, he asked whether she would consent to rule as mistress of his home, the honour and ornament of his ancient name?  He knew that her heart was his, but he must hear one thing more from her lips—­

Here she had interrupted him with the cry, “This one thing—­that your wife, in joy and in sorrow, will live for you and you alone?  The whole world can vanish for her, now that you have raised her to your side and she is yours.”

After this assurance, which sounded like an oath, Dion felt as if a heavy burden had fallen from his heart, and clasping her in his arms with passionate tenderness, he repeated, “In joy and in sorrow!”

Thus Gorgias and Helena had surprised them, and the architect felt for the first time that there is no distinction between our own happiness and that of those whom we love.

His friend Helena seemed to have the same feeling, when she saw what this day had given her sister; and the philosopher’s house, so lately shadowed by anxiety, and many a fear, would soon ring with voices uttering joyous congratulations.  The architect no longer felt that he had a place in this circle, which was now pervaded by a great common joy, and after Dion made a brief explanation, Gorgias’s voice was soon heard outside loudly issuing orders to the workmen.