“And in doing so,” Myrtilus responded, “he believed he had made the best provision for his happiness.  But there is something peculiar in art.  I know from your father himself how kind his intentions were when he withdrew his assistance from Hermon, and when he had escaped to the island of Rhodes, left him to make his own way during the first period of apprenticeship through which he passed there.  Necessity, he thought, would bring him back to where he had a life free from anxiety awaiting him.  But the result was different.  Far be it from me to blame the admirable Archias, yet had he permitted his ward to follow his true vocation earlier, it would have been better for him.”

“Then you think that he began to study too late?” asked Daphne eagerly.

“Not too late,” was the reply, “but with his passionate struggle to advance, an earlier commencement would have been more favourable.  While the companions of his own age were already doing independent work, he was still a student, and so it happened that he began for himself too soon.”

“Yet,” Daphne answered, “can you deny that, directly after Hermon produced his first work which made his talent undeniable, my father again treated him like his own son?”

“On the contrary,” replied Myrtilus, “I remember only too well how Archias at that time, probably not entirely without your intercession, fairly showered gold upon his nephew, but unfortunately this abundance was by no means to his advantage.”

“What do you mean?” asked Daphne.  “Were not you, at that very time, in full possession of the great wealth inherited from your father and mother, and yet did you not work far beyond your strength?  Bryaxis—­I heard him—­was full of your praises, and yet entreated my father to use all his influence, as guardian, to warn you against overwork.”

“My kind master!” cried Myrtilus, deeply moved.  “He was as anxious about me as a father.”

“Because he perceived that you were destined for great achievements.”

“And because it did not escape his penetration how much I needed care.  My lungs, Daphne, my lungs—­surely you know how the malicious disease became fatal to my clear mother, and to my brother and sister also.  All three sank prematurely into the grave, and for years the shades of my parents have been beckoning to me too.  When the cough shakes my chest, I see Charon raise his oar and invite me also to enter his sable boat.”

“But you just assured me that you were doing well,” observed the girl.  “The cough alone makes me a little anxious.  If you could only see for yourself what a beautiful colour the pure air has given your cheeks!”