ad done, he sobbed out that he was the most ungrateful wretch on
earth. His baseness would ruin his kind parents, himself, and all his
friends.

Then he accused himself of having caused the destruction of Didymus's
granddaughter. He would not have gone to Antyllus again had not his
recent generosity bound him to him, but now he must atone-ay, atone.
Then, as if completely crushed, he continued to mumble the word, "atone!"
and for a time nothing more could be won from him.

Didymus, however, had the key to the last sentence. A few weeks before,
Philotas and several other pupils of the rhetorician whose lectures in
the museum he attended had been invited to breakfast with Antyllus. When
the young student loudly admired the beautiful gold and silver beakers in
which the wine was served, the reckless host cried: "They are yours; take
them with you." When the guests departed the cup-bearer asked Philotas,
who had been far from taking the gift seriously, to receive his property.
Antyllus had intended to bestow the goblets; but he advised the youth to
let him pay their value in money, for among them were several ancient
pieces of most artistic workmanship, which Antony, the extravagant young
fellow's father, might perhaps be unwilling to lose.

Thereupon several rolls of gold solidi were paid to the astonished
student--and they had been of little real benefit, since they had made it
possible for him to keep pace with his wealthy and aristocratic
classmates and share many of their extravagances. Yet he had not ceased
to fulfil his duty to Didymus.

Though he sometimes turned night into day, he gave no serious cause for
reproof. Small youthful errors were willingly pardoned; for he was a
good-looking, merry young fellow, who knew how to make himself agreeable
to the entire household, even to the women.

What had befallen the poor youth that day? Didymus was filled with
compassion for him, and, though he gladly welcomed Gorgias, he gave him
to understand that the leech's absence vexed him.

But, during a long bachelor career in Alexandria, a city ever gracious to
the gifts of Bacchus, Gorgias had become familiar with attacks like those
of Philotas and their treatment, and after several jars of water had been
brought and he had been left alone a short time with the sufferer, the
philosopher secretly rejoiced that he had not summoned the grey-haired
leech into the stormy night for Gorgias led forth his pupil with dripping
hai