A Question | Page 5

away, because, since your master has been
ill and no longer able to attend to business, your poultry daily feeds
upon our barley."
"I'm surprised you don't brand us as robbers!" cried Semestre. "Yes, if
you had beaten me yourself with a stick, you would say a dry branch of
a fig or olive tree had accidentally fallen on my back. I know you well
enough, and Leonax, Alciphron's son, not your sleepy Phaon, whom
people say is roaming about when he ought to be resting quietly in the
house, shall have our girl for his wife. It's not I who say so, but
Lysander, my lord and master."
"Your will is his," replied Jason. "Far be it from me to wound the sick
man with words, but ever since he has been ill you've played the master,
and he ought to be called the house-keeper. Ay, you have more
influence under his roof than any one else, but Aphrodite and Eros are a
thousand times more powerful, for you rule by pans, spits, and soft
pillows--they govern hearts with divine, irresistible omnipotence."

Semestre laughed scornfully, and, striking the hard stone floor with her
myrtle-staff, exclaimed:
"My spit is enough, and perhaps Eros is helping it with his arrows, for
Xanthe no longer asks for your Phaon, any more than I fretted for a
person now standing before me when he was young. Eros loves harder
work. People who grow up together and meet every day, morning, noon,
and night, get used to each other as the foot does to the sandal, and the
sandal to the foot, but the heart remains untouched. But when a
handsome stranger, with perfumed locks and costly garments, suddenly
meets the maiden, Aphrodite's little son fits an arrow to his golden
bow."
"But he doesn't shoot," cried Jason, "when he knows that another shaft
has already pierced the maiden's heart. Any man can win any girl,
except one whose soul is filled with love for another."
"The gray-headed old bachelor speaks from experience," retorted
Semestre, quickly. "And your Phaon! If he really loved our girl, how
could he woo another or have her wooed for him? It comes to the same
thing. But I don't like to waste so many words. I know our Xanthe
better than you, and she no more cares for her playfellow than the
column on the right side of the hearth yearns toward the one on the left,
though they have stood together under the same roof so long."
"Do you know what the marble feels?"
"Nothing, Jason, nothing at all; that is, just as much as Xanthe feels for
Phaon. But what's that noise outside the door?"
The house-keeper was still talking, when one of the folding doors
opened a little, and Dorippe called through the crack:
"May we come in? Here's a messenger from Protarch."
"Admit him," cried Semestre, eagerly. The door flew wide open, and
the two girls entered the women's apartment with Mopsus, the brother
of the lively Chloris. The latter was clinging to his arm, and as he came

into the hall removed the broad-brimmed travelling-hat from his brown
locks, while dark-skinned Dorippe went behind him and pushed the
hesitating youth across the threshold, as a boat is launched into the sea.
In reply to the house-keeper's excited questions, he related that Protarch
had sold his master's oil at Messina for as high a price as his own,
bought two new horses for his neighbor Cleon, and sent Mopsus
himself forward with them. If the wind didn't change, he would arrive
that day.
While speaking, he drew from the girdle which confined his blue chiton,
bordered with white, around his waist, a strip of papyrus, and handed it
to Semestre with a greeting from his master.
The house-keeper looked at both sides of the yellow sheet, turned it
over and over, held it close to her eyes, and then glanced hesitatingly at
Jason. He would know that she could not read; but Xanthe could
decipher written sentences, and the young girl must soon appear at
breakfast.
"Shall I read it?" asked the old man.
"I could do so myself, if I chose," replied the house-keeper, drawing
her staff over the floor in sharp and blunt angles, as if she were writing.
"I could, but I don't like to hear news on an empty stomach, and what is
said in this letter concerns myself, I should suppose, and nobody else.
Go and call Xanthe to breakfast, Dorippe."
"I know what is in it," cried the girl, reluctant to part from her
companion's brother, whom she loved, and who still had a great deal to
tell her about his journey to Messina. "Mopsus has told us. Our master's
nephew, Leonax, Alciphron's son, will accompany his uncle and stay