CHAPTER XV.

Nothing delighted old Dido more than to dress the daughter of her beloved mistress in all her best, for she had helped to bring her up; but to-day it was a cruel task; tears dimmed her old eyes.  It was not till she had put the finishing touches to braiding the girl’s abundant brown hair, pinned her peplos on the shoulders with brooches, and set the girdle straight, that her face cleared, as she looked at the result.  Never had she seen her darling look so fair.  Nothing, indeed, remained of the child-like timidity and patient submissiveness which had touched Dido only two days since, as she plaited Melissa’s hair.  The maiden’s brow was grave and thoughtful, the lips firmly set; but she seemed to Dido to have grown, and to have gained something of her mother’s mature dignity.  She looked, the old woman told her, like the image of Pallas Athene; adding, to make her smile, that if she wanted an owl, she, Dido, could fill the part.  Jesting had never been the old woman’s strong point, and to-day it was less easy than ever; for, if the worst befell, and she were sent in her old age to a strange house—­and Argutis, no doubt, to another—­she would have to turn the handmill for the rest of her days.

But it was a hard task which the motherless—­and now fatherless—­girl had set herself, and she must try to cheer her darling.  While she was dressing her, she never ceased praying to all the gods and goddesses she could think of to come to the maiden’s aid and move the souls of those who could help her.  And though she was, as a rule, ready to expect the worst, this time she hoped for the best; for Seleukus’s wife must have a heart of stone if she could close it to such innocence, such beauty, and the pathetic glance of those large, imploring eyes.

When at length Melissa quitted the house, deeply veiled, with Argutis to escort her, she took his arm; and he, wearing his master’s mantle, and exempted long since from keeping his hair cropped, was so proud of this that he walked with all the dignity of a freeman, and no one could have guessed that he was a slave.  Melissa’s face was completely hidden, and she, like her companion, was safe from recognition.  Argutis, nevertheless, led her through the quietest and darkest lanes to the Kanopic way.  Both were silent, and looked straight before them.  Melissa, as she walked on, could not think with her usual calm.  Like a suffering man who goes to the physician’s house to die or be cured by the knife, she felt that she was on her way to something terrible in itself, to remedy, if possible, something still more dreadful.  Her father—­ Alexander, so reckless and so good-hearted—­Philip, whom she pitied—­and her sick lover, came in turn before her fancy.  But she could not control her mind to dwell on either for long.  Nor could she, as usual, when she had any serious purpose in hand, put up a prayer to her mother’s manes or the immortals; and all