rangeness and waywardness of her nature,
her singular alternations of passion and softness--the mixture of
ignorance and genius--of delicacy and rudeness--of the quick humors of
the child, and the proud calmness of the woman. Although she refused to
accept of freedom, she was constantly suffered to be free; she went
where she listed; no curb was put either on her words or actions; they
felt for one so darkly fated, and so susceptible of every wound, the
same pitying and compliant indulgence the mother feels for a spoiled and
sickly child--dreading to impose authority, even where they imagined it
for her benefit. She availed herself of this license by refusing the
companionship of the slave whom they wished to attend her. With the
slender staff by which she guided her steps, she went now, as in her
former unprotected state, along the populous streets: it was almost
miraculous to perceive how quickly and how dexterously she threaded
every crowd, avoiding every danger, and could find her benighted way
through the most intricate windings of the city. But her chief delight
was still in visiting the few feet of ground which made the garden of
Glaucus--in tending the flowers that at least repaid her love.
Sometimes she entered the chamber where he sat, and sought a
conversation, which she nearly always broke off abruptly--for
conversation with Glaucus only tended to one subject--Ione; and that
name from his lips inflicted agony upon her. Often she bitterly
repented the service she had rendered to Ione: often she said inly, 'If
she had fallen, Glaucus could have loved her no longer'; and then dark
and fearful thoughts crept into her breast.

She had not experienced fully the trials that were in store for her,
when she had been thus generous. She had never before been present when
Glaucus and Ione were together; she had never heard that voice so kind
to her, so much softer to another. The shock that crushed her heart
with the tidings that Glaucus loved, had at first only saddened and
benumbed--by degrees jealousy took a wilder and fiercer shape; it
partook of hatred--it whispered revenge. As you see the wind only
agitate the green leaf upon the bough, while the leaf which has lain
withered and seared on the ground, bruised and trampled upon till the
sap and life are gone, is suddenly whirled aloft--now here--now
there--without stay and without rest; so the love which visits the happy
and the hopeful hath but freshness on