committed in the future
Honest anger affords a certain degree of enjoyment
Mirrors were not allowed in the convent
Ovid, 'We praise the ancients'
Pays better to provide for people's bodies than for their brains
Repeated the exclamation: "Too late!" and again, "Too late!
Who watches for his neighbour's faults has a hundred sharp eyes
Who gives great gifts, expects great gifts again

A QUESTION

By Georg Ebers

Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford
PRELUDE.

In the Art-Palace on green Isar's strand,
Before one picture long I kept my seat,
It held me spellbound by some magic band,
Nor when my home I sought, could I forget.

A year elapsed, came winter's frost and snow,
'Twas rarely now we saw the bright sun shine,
I plucked up courage and cried: "Be it so!"
Then southward wandered with those I call mine.

Like birds of passage built we there a nest
On a palm-shaded shore, all steeped in light,
Life was a holiday, enjoyed with zest
And grateful hearts, the while it winged its flight.

Oft on the sea's wide purplish-blue expanse,
With ever new delight I fixed my eyes,
Alma Tadema's picture, at each glance
Recalled to mind, a thousand times would rise.

Once a day dawned, glad as a bride's fair face,
Perfume, and light, and joy it did enfold,
Then-without search, flitted from out of space
Words for the tale that my friend's picture told.
A QUESTION

CHAPTER I.

THE HOUSE-KEEPER AND THE STEWARD.

"Salt sea-water or oil, it's all the same to you! Haven't I put my lamp
out long ago? Doesn't the fire on the hearth give light enough? Are your
eyes so drowsy that they don't see the dawn shining in upon us more and
more brightly? The olives are not yet pressed, and the old oil is getting
toward the dregs. Besides, you know how much fruit those abominable
thieves have stolen. But sparrows will carry grain into the barn before
you'll try to save your master's property!"

So Semestre, the ancient house-keeper of Lysander of Syracuse, scolded
the two maids, Chloris and Dorippe, who, unheeding the smoking wicks of
their lamps, were wearily turning the hand-mills.

Dorippe, the younger of the two, grasped her disordered black tresses,
over which thousands of rebellious little hairs seemed to weave a veil of
mist, drew from the mass of curls falling on her neck a