what you are saying. How came you in the papyrus
factory?"

"Do not betray me," begged Selene. "If my father were to hear of it."

"He is asleep, and what you confide to me no one will ever hear of
again."

"Why should I conceal it? I go every day with Arsinoe for two hours to
the manufactory, and we work there to earn a little money."

"Behind your father's back?"

"Yes, he would rather that we should starve than allow it. Every day I
feel the same loathing for the deceit; but we could not get on without
it, for Arsinoe thinks of nothing but herself, plays draughts with my
father, curls his hair, plays with the children as if they were dolls,
but it is my part to take care of them."

"And you, you say, have no share of love. Happily no one believes you,
and I least of all. Only lately my mother was telling me about you, and I
thought you were a girl who might turn out just such a wife as a woman
ought to be."

"And now?"

"Now, I know it for certain."

"You may be mistaken."

"No, no! your name is Selene, and you are as gentle as the kindly
moonlight; names, even, have their significance."

"And my blind brother who has never even seen the light is called
Helios!" answered the girl.

Pollux had spoken with much warmth, but Selene's last words startled him
and checked the effervescence of his feelings. Finding he did not answer
her bitter exclamation, she said, at first coolly, but with increasing
warmth:

"You are beginning to believe me, and you are right, for what I do for
the children is not done out of love, or out of kindness, or because I
set their welfare above my own. I have inherited my father's pride, and
it would be odious to me if my brothers and sisters went about in rags,
and people thought we were as poor and helpless as we really are. What is
most horrible to me is sickness in the house, for that increases the
anxiety I always feel and swallows up my last coin; the children must not
perish for want of it. I do not want to make myself out worse than I am;
it grieves me too to see them drooping. But nothing that I do brings me
happiness--at most it moderates my fears. You ask what I am afraid
of?--of everything, everything that can happen to me, for I have no
reason to look forward to anything good. When there is a knock, it may be
a creditor; when people look at Arsinoe in the street, I seem to see
dishonor lurking round her; when my father acts against the advice of the
physician I fee