conjurer watched her keenly and searchingly, as not without
difficulty he picked up the leaf. Then glancing pleasantly at her
father, he called her back, pointed with his finger to the inner
surface, and said:

"Just look at these lines, with the little strokes here at the end.
That's a snail with horns. A slow creature! It warns people not to be
over-hasty. If you feel inclined to run, check your steps and ask where
the path will lead."

"And move through life like a cart creaping down into the valley with
drags on the wheels," interrupted Xanthe. "I expected something unlike
school-masters' lessons from the clever hen that loaded Semestre with so
many years."

"Only question her about what is in your heart," replied the little man,
"and she won't fail to answer."

The young girl glanced irresolutely at the conjurer, but repressed the
desire to learn more of the future, fearing her father's laughter. She
knew that, when Lysander was well and free from pain, nothing pleased
him so much as to tease her till she wept.

The invalid guessed what was passing in his little daughter's mind, and
said, encouragingly:

"Ask the hen. I'll stop both ears while you question the oracle. Yes,
yes, one can scarcely hear his own voice for the monaulus and the shouts
of the crazy people yonder.

"Such sounds lure those who are fond of dancing, as surely as a
honey-comb brings flies. By the dog! there are four merry couples
already! Only I miss Phaon. You say the couch in my brother's house has
grown too hard for him, and he has found softer pillows in Syracuse.
With us the day began long ago, but in the city perhaps they haven't
quite finished with yesterday. I'm sorry for the fine fellow."

"Is it true," asked Xanthe, blushing, "that my uncle is seeking a rich
bride for him in Messina?"

"Probably, but in courtship one does not always reach the desired goal.
Has Phaon told you nothing about his father's wishes? Question the
conjurer, or he'll get his new clothes with far too little trouble. Save
me the reproach of being a spendthrift."

"I don't wish to do so; what is the use of such folly?" replied Xanthe,
with flushed cheeks, preparing to go into the house.

Her father shrugged his shoulders, and, turning his head, called after
her:

"Do as you please, but cut a piece from the brown woolen cloth, and
bring it to the conjurer."

The young girl disappeared in the house. The tune which the boy drew
from the monaulus aga