You know her and Joanna.  Bear witness to your friend that no evil word ever passed the lips of either of them.  Far be it from me to advise you, who bear the image of another woman in your heart,—­to say:  marry the child, she is the wife for you.  But this much to you both—­Father and son—­I do advise you to live with the mother and daughter as true and friendly house-mates.  You will none of you repent doing so.  This is a dying man’s word.  I can write no more.  You are the women’s guardian, Philip, a faithful one I know.  A common aim makes men grow alike.  You and I, for many a year.—­Take good care of them for me; I entreat you—­good care.”

The last words were separated and written all astray; the old man could hardly make them out.  He now sat looking, as Phillipus had done before, sorely puzzled and undecided over this strange document.

“Well?” asked the leech at last.

“Aye-well?” repeated the other with a shrug.  Then both again were silent; till Horapollo rose, and taking his staff, also paced the room while he murmured, half to himself and half to his younger friend “They are two quiet, reasonable women.  There are not many of that sort, I fancy.  How the little one helped me up from the low seat in the garden!” It was a reminiscence that made him chuckle to himself; he stopped Philippus, who was pacing at his side, by lightly patting his arm, exclaiming with unwonted vivacity:  “A man should be ready to try everything—­the care of women even, before he steps into the grave.  And is it a fact that neither of them is a scold or a chatter-box?”

“It is indeed.”

“And what ‘if’ or ‘but’ remains behind?” asked the old man.  “Let us be reckless for once, brother!  If the whole business were not so diabolically serious, it would be quite laughable.  The young one for me and the old one for you in our leisure hours, my son; better washed linen; clothes without holes in them; no dust on our books; a pleasant ‘Rejoice’ every morning, or at meal-times;—­only look at the fruit on that dish!  No better than the oats they strew before horses.  At the old man’s everything was as nice as it used to be in my own home at Philae:  Supper a little work of art, a feast for the eye as well as the appetite!  Pulcheria seems to understand all that as well as my poor dead sister did.  And then, when I want to rise, such a kind, pretty little hand to help one up!  I have long hated this dwelling.  Lime and dust fall from the ceiling in my bedroom, and here there are wide gaps in the flooring-I stumbled over one yesterday—­and our niggardly landlords, the officials, say that if we want anything repaired we may do it ourselves, that they have no money left for such things.  Now, under that worthy old man’s roof everything was in the best order.”  The philosopher chuckled aloud and rubbed his hands as he went on:  “Supposing we kick over the traces for once, Philip.  Supposing we were to carry out our friend’s dying wish?  Merciful Isis!  It would certainly be a good action, and I have not many to boast of.  But cautiously—­what do you say?  We can always throw it up at a month’s notice.”