“Never fear, father!  There were images of the gods in the halls and corridors, and in the room where we were received by Gorgo, the beautiful daughter of Porphyrius, there was an altar before an image of Isis, quite freshly anointed.—­This Porphyrius is a very rich merchant; we learnt that afterwards, and many other things.  The philosopher asked us at once whether we were aware that Theodosius had lately promulgated a new edict forbidding young maidens to appear in public as singers or flute-players.”

“And did Agne hear that?” said the old man in a low voice as he pointed to the curtain.

“No, she and Dada were in the garden on to which the room opened, and mother explained at once that though Agne was a Christian she was a very good girl, and that so long as she remained in our service she was bound to sing with us whenever she was required.  The philosopher exclaimed at once:  ‘The very thing!’ and they whispered together, and called the girls and desired them to show what they could do.”

“And how did they perform?” asked the old man, who was growing excited.

“Dada warbled like a lark, and Agne—­well you know how it always is.  Her voice sounded lovely but it was just as usual.  You can guess how much there is in her and how deep her feeling is but she never quite brings it out.  What has she to complain of with us?  And yet whatever she sings has that mournful, painful ring which even you can do nothing to alter.  However, she pleased them better than Dada did, for I noticed that Gorgo and the gentleman glanced at each other and at her, and whispered a word now and then which certainly referred to Ague.  When they had sung two songs the young lady came towards us and praised both the girls, and asked whether we would undertake to learn something quite new.  I told her that my father was a great musician who could master the most difficult things at the first hearing.”

“The most difficult!  Hm... that depends,” said the old man.  “Did she show it you?”

“No; it is something in the style of Linus and she sang it to us.”

“The daughter of the rich Porphyrius sang for your entertainment?  Yours?” said Karnis laughing.  “By Sirius!  The world is turning upside down.  Now that girls are forbidden to perform to the gentlefolks, art is being cultivated by the upper classes; it cannot be killed outright.  For the future the listeners will be paid to keep quiet and the singers pay for the right of torturing their ears—­our ears, our luckless ears will be victimized.”

Orpheus smiled and shook his head; then, again dropping his knife, he went on eagerly: 

“But if you could only hear her!  You would give your last copper piece to hear her again.”

“Indeed!” muttered his father.  “Well, there are very good teachers here.  Something by Linus did you say she sang?”

“Something of that kind; a lament for the dead of very great power:  ‘Return, oh! return my beloved, came back—­come home!’ that was the burthen of it.  And there was a passage which said:  ’Oh that each tear had a voice and could join with me in calling thee!” And how she sang it, father!  I do not think I ever in my life heard anything like it.  Ask mother.  Even Dada’s eyes were full of tears.”