esirous of purchasing."

Callista laughed carelessly, but made no reply.

"Come, child," Aristo continued, "don't be cruel to him. Wreath a garland
for him by the time he comes. He's well to do, and modest withal, and
needs encouragement."

"He's well enough," said Callista.

"I say he's a fellow too well off to be despised as a lover," proceeded
her brother, "and it would be a merit with the gods to rid him of his
superstition."

"Not much of a Christian," she made answer, "if he is set upon me."

"For whose sake has he been coming here so often, mine or yours,
Callista?"

"I am tired of such engagements," she replied. She went on with her
painting, and several times seemed as if she would have spoken, but did
not. Then, without interrupting her work, she said calmly, "Time was, it
gratified my conceit and my feelings to have hangers on. Indeed, without
them, how should we have had means to come here? But there's a weariness
in all things."

"A weariness! Where is this bad humour to end?" cried Aristo; "it has been
a long fit; shake it off while you can, or it will be too much for you.
What can you mean? a weariness! You are over young to bid youth farewell.
Aching hearts for aching bones. So young and so perverse! We must take
things as the gods give them. You will ask for them in vain when you are
old. One day above, another day beneath; one while young, another while
old. Enjoy life while you have it in your hand." He had said this as he
worked. Then he stopped, and turned round to her, with his graving-tool in
his hand. "Recollect old Lesbia, how she used to squeak out to me, with
her nodding head and trembling limbs"--here he mimicked the old crone--" 'My
boy, take your pleasure while you can. I can't take pleasure--my day is
over; but I don't reproach myself. I had a merry time of it while it
lasted. Time stops for no one, but I did my best; I don't reproach
myself.' There's the true philosopher, though a slave; more outspoken than
AEsop, more practical than Epictetus."

Callista began singing to herself:--

"I wander by that river's brink
Which circles Pluto's drear domain;
I feel the chill night breeze, and think
Of joys which ne'er shall be again.

"I count the weeds that fringe the shore,
Each sluggish wave that rolls and rolls;
I hear the ever-splashing oar
Of Charon, ferryman of souls.

"Heigho!" she continued, "little