When Paula had led the grief-worn but tearless widow to her chariot, and had then returned home with Perpetua, the image of the handsome and wrathful youth as he lifted his powerful arm and tightly-clenched fist and shook them in the air, still constantly haunted her.  She had not failed to observe that he had seen her standing opposite to him by the open tomb and she had been able to avoid meeting his eye; but her heart had throbbed so violently that she still felt it quivering, she had not succeeded in thinking of the beloved dead with due devotion.

Orion, as yet, had neither come near her in her peaceful retreat, nor sent any messenger to deliver her belongings, and this she thought very natural; for she needed no one to tell her how many claims there must be on his time.

But though, before the funeral, she had firmly resolved to refuse to see him if he came, and had given her nurse fall powers to receive from his hand the whole of her property, after the ceremony this line of conduct no longer struck her as seemly; indeed, she considered it no more than her duty to the departed not to repel Orion if he should crave her forgiveness.

And there was another thing which she owed to her uncle.  She desired to be the first to point out to Orion, from Philip’s point of view, that life was a post, a duty; and then, if his heart seemed opened to this admonition, then—­but no, this must be all that could pass between them—­then all must be at an end, extinct, dead, like the fires in a sunken raft, like a soap-bubble that the wind has burst, like an echo that has died away—­all over and utterly gone.

And as to the counsel she thought of offering to the man she had once looked up to?  What right had she to give it?  Did he not look like a man quite capable of planning and living his own life in his own strength?  Her heart thirsted for him, every fibre of her being yearned to see him again, to hear his voice, and it was this longing, this craving to which she gave the name of duty, connecting it with the gratitude she owed to the dead.

She was so much absorbed in these reflections and doubts that she scarcely heard all the garrulous old nurse was saying as she walked by her side.

Perpetua could not be easy over such a funeral ceremony as this; so different to anything that Memphis had been wont to see.  No priests, a procession on horseback, mourners riding, and among them the son even of the dead—­while of old the survivors had always followed the body on foot, as was everywhere the custom!  And then a mere chirping of crickets at the tomb of such illustrious dead, followed by the disorderly squalling of an immense mob—­it had nearly cracked her ears!  However, the citizens might be forgiven for that, since it was all in honor of their departed governor!—­this thought touched even her resolute heart and brought the tears to her eyes; but it roused her wrath, too, for had she not seen quite humble folk buried in a more solemn