Those which she and her father had placed there she recognized at once.  That humble garland of reeds with two lotus-flowers was the gift of their old slave Argutis and his wife Dido.  This beautiful wreath of choice flowers had come from the garden of a neighbor who had loved her mother well; and that splendid basketful of lovely roses, which had not been there this morning, had been placed here by Andreas, steward to the father of her young friend Diodoros, although he was of the Christian sect.  And these were all.  Philip had not been here then, though it was now past midnight.

For the first time in his life he had let this day pass by without a thought for their dead.  How bitterly this grieved Melissa, and even added to her anxiety for him!

It was with a heavy heart that she and Alexander anointed the tombstone; and while Melissa uplifted her hands in prayer, the painter stood in silence, his eyes fixed on the ground.  But no sooner had she let them fall, than he exclaimed: 

“He is here, I am sure, and in the house of the embalmers.  That he ordered two wreaths is perfectly certain; and if he meant one for Korinna’s picture, he surely intended the other for our mother.  If he has offered both to the young girl—­”

“No, no!” Melissa put in.  “He will bring his gift.  Let us wait here a little while, and do you, too, pray to the manes of our mother.  Do it to please me.”

But her brother interrupted her eagerly I think of her wherever I may be; for those we truly love always live for us.  Not a day passes, nor if I come in sober, not a night, when I do not see her dear face, either waking or dreaming.  Of all things sacred, the thought of her is the highest; and if she had been raised to divine honors like the dead Caesars who have brought so many curses on the world—­”

“Hush—­don’t speak so loud!” said Melissa, seriously, for men were moving to and fro among the tombs, and Roman guards kept watch over the populace.

But the rash youth went on in the same tone: 

“I would worship her gladly, though I have forgotten how to pray.  For who can tell here—­unless he follows the herd and worships Serapis—­who can tell to which god of them all he shall turn when he happens to be at his wits’ end?  While my mother lived, I, like you, could gladly worship and sacrifice to the immortals; but Philip has spoiled me for all that.  As to the divine Caesars, every one thinks as I do.  My mother would sooner have entered a pesthouse than the banqueting-hall where they feast, on Olympus.  Caracalla among the gods!  Why, Father Zeus cast his son Hephaistos on earth from the height of Olympus, and only broke his leg; but our Caesar accomplished a more powerful throw, for he cast his brother through the earth into the nether world—­an imperial thrust—­and not merely lamed him but killed him.”

“Well done!” said a deep voice, interrupting the young artist.  “Is that you, Alexander?  Hear what new titles to fame Heron’s son can find for the imperial guest who is to arrive to-morrow.”