A Question | Page 9

festivals and joyous dances, and to none of
her companions did the youths present more beautiful ribbons, to no
one in the circle did they prefer to offer their hands. She was the fairest
of all the maidens far and near, and Ismene, Phryxus's wife, had said
that her laughter was gay enough to make a cripple dance. Ismene had a
daughter herself just Xanthe's age, so it must probably have been true.
Then why, in the name of all the gods, was Xanthe sad?
Is any cause required to explain it?
Must a maiden have met with misfortune, to make her feel a longing to
weep? Certainly not.
Nay, the gayest rattle-brain is the least likely to escape such a desire.
When the sky has long shone with unclouded splendor, and the air is so
wonderfully clear that even the most distant mountain-peaks are
distinctly visible, rain is not long delayed; and who can laugh heartily a
long time without finally shedding tears like a mourner?
Whoever endures a severe though not the deepest affliction, whoever is
permitted to reach the topmost summit of joy, and a girl who feels love-
these three Heaven favors with the blessing of tears.
Had Eros's arrow struck Xanthe's young heart too?
It was possible, though she would not confess it even to herself, and
only yesterday had denied it, without the quiver of an eyelash.

Yet, if she did love a youth, and for his sake had climbed to the spring,
he must doubtless dwell in the reddish house, standing on a beautiful
level patch of ground on the right of the brook, between the sea and the
pool; for she glanced toward it again and again, and, except the
servants, no one lived under its roof save the aged steward Jason, and
Phaon, her uncle's son. Protarch himself had gone to Messina, with his
own and her father's oil.
To age is allotted the alms of reverence, to youth the gift of love, and,
of the three men who lived in the house on Xanthe's right-hand, only
one could lay claim to such a gift, and he had an unusually good right
to do so.
Xanthe was thinking of Phaon as she sat beside the spring, but her brow
wore such a defiant frown that she did not bear the most distant
resemblance to a maiden giving herself up to tender emotions.
Now the door of the reddish house opened, and, rising hastily, she
looked toward it. A slave came cautiously out, bearing a large jar with
handles, made of brown clay, adorned with black figures.
What had the high-shouldered graybeard done, that she stamped her
foot so angrily on the ground, and buried the upper row of her
snow-white teeth deep in her under-lip, as if stifling some pang?
No one is less welcome than the unbidden intruder, who meets us in the
place of some one for whom we ardently long, and Xanthe did not wish
to see the slave, but Phaon, his master's son.
She had nothing to say to the youth; she would have rushed away if he
had ventured to seek her by the spring, but she wanted to see him,
wanted to learn whether Semestre had told the truth, when she said
Phaon intended to marry a wealthy heiress, whose hand his father was
seeking in Messina. The house-keeper had declared the night before
that he only wooed the ugly creature for the sake of her money, and
now took advantage of his father's absence to steal out of the house
evening after evening, as soon as the fire was lighted on the hearth.
And the fine night-bird did not return till long past sunrise, no doubt

from mad revels with that crazy Hermias and other wild fellows from
Syracuse. They probably understood how to loosen his slow tongue.
Then the old woman described what occurred at such banquets, and
when she mentioned the painted flute-players, with whom the
dissipated city youths squandered their fathers' money, and the old
house-keeper called attention to the fact that Phaon already wandered
about as stupidly and sleepily as if he were a docile pupil of the
notorious Hermias, Xanthe fairly hated her, and almost forgot the
respect she owed to her gray hair, and told her to her face she was a liar
and slanderer.
But the girl had been unable to speak, for Phaon's secret courtship of
the Messina heiress had deeply wounded her pride, and he really did
look more weary and dreamy than usual.
Semestre's praises of her cousin, the young Leonax, Xanthe had heard
as little as the chirping of the crickets on the hearth, and before the
house-keeper had finished speaking she rose, and, without bidding her
good-night, turned her back and left the women's