good bargain. The profits of that day's work were
multiplied by tens, and water, nothing in the world but Nile
water--Baptismal water the priest had called it--had filled her son's
money-bags, too, and had turned their plot of land into broad estates;
but it had been tacitly understood that this sprinkling of water
established a claim for a return, and this both father and son had
solemnly promised. Its magic turned everything they touched to gold, but
it brought a blight on the peace of the household. One branch, which had
grown up in the traditions of the old Macedonian stock, had separated
from the other; and her husband's great lie lay between them and the
family still living in the Canopic way, like a wide ocean embittered with
the salt of hatred. That he had infused poison into his son's life and
compelled him, proud as he was, to forfeit the dignity of a free and
high-minded man. Though devoted in his heart to the old gods he had
humbled himself, year after year, to bow the knee with the hated votaries
of the Christian faith, and in their church, to their crucified Lord, and
had publicly confessed Christ. The water--the terrible thaumaturgic
stream--clung to him more inseparably than the brand-mark on a slave's
arm. It could neither be dried up nor wiped away; for if the false
Christian, who was really a zealous heathen, had boldly confessed the
Olympian gods and abjured the odious new faith, the gifts of the
all-powerful water and all the possessions of their old family would be
confiscated to the State and Church, and the children of Porphyrius, the
grandchildren of the wealthy Damia, would be beggars. And this--all
this--for the sake of a crucified Jew.

The gods be praised the end of all this wretchedness was at hand! A
thrill of ecstasy ran through her as she reflected that with herself and
her children, every soul, everything that bore the name of Christian
would be crushed, shattered and annihilated. She could have laughed aloud
but that her throat was so dry, her tongue so parched; but her scornful
triumph was expressed in every feature, as her fancy showed her Marcus
riding along the Canopic street with that little heathen hussy Dada, the
singing girl, while her much-hated daughter-in-law looked after them,
beating her forehead in grief and rage.

Quite beside herself with delight the old woman rocked backwards and
forwards in her chair; not for long, however, for the black birds seemed
to fill the whol