possession
no one could deny the artist's daughter. This was apparent even in her
dress, yet Iras had roused her in the middle of the night, and certainly
had given her no time for personal adornment.

She had expected lack of refinement and boldness, in the woman who was
said to have attracted so many men, but even the most bitter prejudice
could have detected no trace of it. On the contrary, the embarrassment
which she could not yet wholly subdue lent her an air of girlish
timidity. All in all, Barine was a charming creature, who bewitched men
by her vivacity, her grace, and her exquisite voice, not by coquetry and
pertness. That she possessed unusual mental endowments Cleopatra did not
believe. Barine had only one advantage over her--youth.

Time had not yet robbed the former of a single charm, while from the
Queen he had wrested many; their number was known only to herself and her
confidantes, but at this hour she did not miss them.

Barine, with a low, modest bow, advanced towards the Queen, who commenced
the conversation by graciously apologizing for the late hour at which she
had summoned her. "But," she added, "you belong to the ranks of the
nightingales, who during the night most readily and exquisitely reveal to
us what stirs their hearts--"

Barine gazed silently at the floor a moment, and when she raised her eyes
her voice was faint and timid. "I sing, it is true, your Majesty, but I
have nothing else in common with the birds. The wings which, when a
child, bore me wherever I desired, have lost their strength. They do not
wholly refuse their service, but they now require favourable hours to
move."

"I should not have expected that in the time of your youth, your most
beautiful possession," replied the Queen. "Yet it is well. I too--how
long ago it seems!--was a child, and my imagination outstripped even the
flight of the eagle. It could dare the risk unpunished. Now----Whoever
has reached mature life is wise to let these wings remain idle. The
mortal who ventures to use them may easily approach too near the sun,
and, like Icarus, the wax will melt from his pinions. Let me tell you
this: To the child the gift of imagination is nourishing bread. In later
years we need it only as salt, as spice, as stimulating wine. Doubtless
it points out many paths, and shows us their end; but, of a hundred
rambles to which it summons him, scarcely one pleases the mature man. No
troublesome parasite is more persistently