A Question | Page 7

sparkling water rushed from a cleft in the rocks, and, on the left of
the little bench, where Xanthe sat, formed a clear, transparent pool,
whose edges were inclosed by exquisitely-polished, white-marble
blocks. Every reddish pebble, every smooth bit of snowy quartz, every
point and furrow and stripe on the pretty shells on its sandy bottom,
was as distinctly visible as if held before the eyes on the palm of the
hand, and yet the water was so deep that the gold circlet sparkling
above the elbow on Xanthe's round arm, nay, even the gems confining
her peplum on the shoulder, would have been wet had she tried to touch
the bottom of the basin with the tips of her fingers.
The water was green and clear as crystal, into which, while molten, bits
of emeralds had been cast to change them into liquid drops.

Farther on it flowed through a channel choked with all kinds of plants.
Close by the edges of the rivulet, which rushed swiftly down to the
valley, drooped delicate vines, that threw their tendrils over the stones
and flourished luxuriantly in the rocks amid thick, moist clumps of
moss. Dainty green plants, swayed to and fro by the plashing water,
grew everywhere on the bottom of the brook, and, wherever on its
course it could flow more smoothly, ferns, nodding gracefully,
surrounded it like ostrich-feathers waving about the cradle of a royal
babe.
Xanthe liked to watch the stream disappear in the myrtle-grove.
When, sitting in her favorite nook, she turned her eyes downward, she
overlooked the broad gardens and fields of her father and uncle,
stretching on the right and left of the stream along the gentle slope of
the mountain, and the narrow plain by the sea.
The whole scene resembled a thick woolen carpet, whose green surface
was embroidered with white and yellow spots, or one of the baskets
young maidens bear on their heads at the feast of Demeter, and in
which, piled high above the edge, light and dark-hued fruit gleams
forth from leaves of every tint.
Groves of young pomegranate and myrtletrees, with vigorous shoots,
stood forth in strong relief against the silvery gray-green foliage of the
gnarled olive-trees.
Fragrant roses, glowing with a scarlet hue, as if the sun's fiery kiss had
called them to life, adorned bushes and hedges, while, blushing faintly,
as if a child's lips had waked them from slumber, the blossoms of the
peach and almond glimmered on the branches of the trees.
Tiny young green leaves were growing from the oddly-interwoven
branches of the fig-trees, to which clung the swelling pouches of the
fruit. Golden lemons glittered amid their strong, brilliant foliage, which
had survived the winter season; and long rows of blackish-green
cypresses rose straight and tall, like the grave voices of the chorus amid
the joyous revel. To Xanthe, gazing downward, her father's pine-wood

seemed like a camp full of arched, round tents, and, if she allowed her
eyes to wander farther, she beheld the motionless sea, whose broad
surface, on this pleasant morning, sparkled like polished sapphire, and
everywhere seemed striving to surpass with its own blue the color of
the clear sky. Ever and anon, like a tiny silver cloud floating across the
firmament, white sails glided by.
Pleasant green hills framed this lovely view. On their well-cultivated
slopes appeared here the white, glimmering walls of a temple; yonder
villages, houses, and cottages, like the herds and single sheep that he
half concealed by dense foliage.
Garlands of flowers surround the heads of happy mortals, and here the
house of every wealthy land-owner was inclosed by a hedge or garden.
Behind the hills rose the sharply-cut outlines of the naked cliffs of the
lofty, distant mountains, and the snowy head of sleeping Mount Etna
gleamed brightly through the mist.
Now, in the early morning, sea and garden, hills and distant mountains
were covered with a delicate veil of indescribable hue. It seemed as if
the sea had furnished the warp of this fabric, and the golden sun the
woof.
The scene was wondrously beautiful, but Xanthe had not gone to the
spring to gaze at the landscape; nay, she scarcely knew that it was
lovely.
When the sea shone with the hue of the sky and lay motionless, as it did
to-day, she thought Glaucus, the god of the blue sea, was sunning
himself in pleasant slumber.
On other bright days when the waves and surges swelled, white foam
crowned their crests, and a never-ending succession of breakers dashed
upon the shore, she believed the fifty daughters of Nereus were
pursuing their sports under the clear water.
They were all lovely women, and full of exuberant gayety.

Some rocked quietly on the gleaming waves, others boldly swung
themselves on the backs of