This lady was pleased to see the artist again to whom she was indebted for the portrait of her daughter.  She had it now in her possession once more, for Philostratus had had it taken back to her house while the emperor was at his meal.

She rested on a sofa, quite worn out.  She had passed through hours of torment; for her concern about Melissa, who had become very dear to her, had given her much more anxiety than even the loss of her beloved picture.  Besides, the young girl was to her for the moment the representative of her sex, and the danger of seeing this pure, sweet creature exposed to the will of a licentious tyrant drove her out of her senses, and her lively fancy had resulted in violent outbreaks of indignation.  She now proposed all sorts of schemes, of which Euryale, the more prudent but not less warm-hearted wife of the chief priest, demonstrated the impossibility.

Like Berenike, a tender-hearted woman, whose smooth, brown hair had already begun to turn gray, she had also lost her only child.  But years had passed since then, and she had accustomed herself to seek comfort in the care of the sick and wretched.  She was regarded all over the city as the providence of all in need, whatever their condition and faith.  Where charity was to be bestowed on a large scale—­if hospitals or almshouses were to be erected or endowed—­she was appealed to first, and if she promised her quiet but valuable assistance, the result was at once secured.  For, besides her own and her husband’s great riches, this lady of high position, who was honored by all, had the purses of all the heathens and Christians in the city at her disposal; both alike considered that she belonged to them; and the latter, although she only held with them in secret, had the better right.

At home, the society of distinguished men afforded her the greatest pleasure.  Her husband allowed her complete freedom; although he, as the chief Greek priest of the city, would have preferred that she should not also have had among her most constant visitors so many learned Christians.  But the god whom he served united in his own person most of the others; and the mysteries which he superintended taught that even Serapis was only a symbolical embodiment of the universal soul, fulfilling its eternal existence by perpetually re-creating itself under constant and immutable laws.  A portion of that soul, which dwelt in all created things, had its abode in each human being, to return to the divine source after death.  Timotheus firmly clung to this pantheist creed; still, he held the honorable post of head of the Museum—­in the place of the Roman priest of Alexander, a man of less learning—­and was familiar not only with the tenets of his heathen predecessors, but with the sacred scriptures of the Jews and Christians; and in the ethics of these last he found much which met his views.

He, who, at the Museum, was counted among the skeptics, liked biblical sentences, such as “All is vanity,” and “We know but in part.”  The command to love your neighbor, to seek peace, to thirst after truth, the injunction to judge the tree by its fruit, and to fear more for the soul than the body, were quite to his mind.