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     For what will not custom excuse and sanctify?

A THORNY PATH

By Georg Ebers

Volume 3.

CHAPTER VIII.

The sun had passed the meridian when Melissa and Andreas left the house.  They walked on in silence through the deserted streets, the girl with her eyes sadly fixed on the ground; for an inward voice warned her that her lover’s life was in danger.  She did not sob, but more than once she wiped away a large tear.

Andreas, too, was lost in his own thoughts.  To win a soul to the Saviour was surely a good work.  He knew Melissa’s sober, thoughtful nature, and the retired, joyless life she led with her surly old father.  So his knowledge of human nature led him to think that she, if any one, might easily be won over to the faith in which he found his chief happiness.  Baptism had given such sanctification to his life that he longed to lead the daughter of the only woman for whom his heart had ever beat a shade faster, to the baptismal font.  In the heat of summer Olympias had often been the guest for weeks together of Polybius’s wife, now likewise dead.  Then she had taken a little house of her own for herself and her children, and when his master’s wife died, the lonely widower had known no greater pleasure than that of receiving her on his estate for as long as Heron would allow her to remain; he himself never left his work for long.  Thus Andreas had become the great ally of the gem-cutter’s children, and, as they could learn nothing from him that was not good and worth knowing, Olympias had gladly allowed them to remain in his society, and herself found a teacher and friend in the worthy steward.  She knew that Andreas had joined the Christians; she had made him tell her much about his faith; still, as the daughter and wife of artists, she was firmly attached to the old gods, and could only regard the Christian doctrine as a new system of philosophy in which many things attracted her, but many, on the other hand, repelled her.  At that time his passion for Melissa’s mother had possessed him so wholly that his life was a constant struggle against the temptation to covet his neighbor’s wife.  And he had conquered, doing severe penance for every glance which might for an instant betray to her the weakness of his soul.  She had loved flowers, and he knew the plant-world so well, and was so absolutely master over everything which grew and bloomed in the gardens of which he had charge, that he could often intrust his speechless favorites to tell her things which lips and eyes might not reveal.  Now she was no more, and the culture of plants had lost half its charm since her eyes could no longer watch their thriving.  He now left the gardens for the most part to his men, while he devoted himself to other cares with double diligence, and to the strictest exercises of his faith.