her, and began quickly and
gracefully to commence her task. Upon her young cheeks the tears were
already dried, a faint but happy smile played round her lips--childlike,
indeed, she was sensible only of the joy of the present hour: she was
reconciled to Glaucus: he had forgiven her--she was beside him--he
played caressingly with her silken hair--his breath fanned her
cheek--Ione, the cruel Ione, was not by--none other demanded, divided,
his care. Yes, she was happy and forgetful; it was one of the few
moments in her brief and troubled life that it was sweet to treasure, to
recall. As the butterfly, allured by the winter sun, basks for a little
in the sudden light, ere yet the wind awakes and the frost comes on,
which shall blast it before the eve--she rested beneath a beam, which,
by contrast with the wonted skies, was not chilling; and the instinct
which should have warned her of its briefness, bade her only gladden in
its smile.

'Thou hast beautiful locks,' said Glaucus. 'They were once, I ween
well, a mother's delight.'

Nydia sighed; it would seem that she had not been born a slave; but she
ever shunned the mention of her parentage, and, whether obscure or
noble, certain it is that her birth was never known by her benefactors,
nor by any one in those distant shores, even to the last. The child of
sorrow and of mystery, she came and went as some bird that enters our
chamber for a moment; we see it flutter for a while before us, we know
not whence it flew or to what region it escapes.

Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without answering the remark,
said: 'But do I weave too many roses in my wreath, Glaucus? They tell
me it is thy favorite flower.'

'And ever favored, my Nydia, be it by those who have the soul of poetry:
it is the flower of love, of festival; it is also the flower we dedicate
to silence and to death; it blooms on our brows in life, while life be
worth the having; it is scattered above our sepulchre when we are no
more.'

'Ah! would,' said Nydia, 'instead of this perishable wreath, that I
could take thy web from the hand of the Fates, and insert the roses
there!'

'Pretty one! thy wish is worthy of a voice so attuned to song; it is
uttered in the spirit of song; and, whatever my doom, I thank thee.'

'Whatever thy doom! is it not already destined to all things bright and
fair? My wish was vain. The Fates will be as tender to thee as I
should.'

'It might not be so, Nydia, were i