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