carried there. If the deaconess
refuses--"

"And she will," Andreas put in.

"Very well.--Come here, maiden," he beckoned to Melissa, and went on
loud enough for the deaconess to hear: "If we can get your betrothed
to the Serapeum early to-morrow, he may probably be cured; otherwise I
refuse to be responsible. Tell your friends and his that I will be here
before sunrise to-morrow, and that they must provide a covered litter
and good bearers."

He then turned to the deaconess, who had followed him in silence, with
her hands clasped like a deserter, laid his broad, square hand on her
shoulder, and added:

"So it must be, Widow Katharine, Love endures and suffers all things,
and to save a neighbor's life, it is well to suffer in silence even
things that displease us. I will explain it all to you afterwards.
Quiet, only perfect quiet--No melancholy leave-taking, child! The sooner
you are out of the house the better."

He went back again to the bed, laid his hand for a moment on the sick
man's forehead, and then left the room.

Diodoros lay still and indifferent on the couch. Melissa kissed him on
the brow, and withdrew without his observing it, her eyes full of tears.

CHAPTER VIII.

The sun had passed the meridian when Melissa and Andreas left the house.
They walked on in silence through the deserted streets, the girl with
her eyes sadly fixed on the ground; for an inward voice warned her that
her lover's life was in danger. She did not sob, but more than once she
wiped away a large tear.

Andreas, too, was lost in his own thoughts. To win a soul to the Saviour
was surely a good work. He knew Melissa's sober, thoughtful nature,
and the retired, joyless life she led with her surly old father. So his
knowledge of human nature led him to think that she, if any one, might
easily be won over to the faith in which he found his chief happiness.
Baptism had given such sanctification to his life that he longed to lead
the daughter of the only woman for whom his heart had ever beat a shade
faster, to the baptismal font. In the heat of summer Olympias had often
been the guest for weeks together of Polybius's wife, now likewise
dead. Then she had taken a little house of her own for herself and her
children, and when his master's wife died, the lonely widower had known
no greater pleasure than that of receiving her on his estate for as long
as Heron would allow her to remain; he himself never left his work
for long. T