ell him," she added, as the tears streamed down her cheeks, "that I
feel as if I were going to my death. But, come what may, I am always his
dutiful child, always ready to sacrifice anything--excepting only the
man to whom, with my father's consent, I pledged my heart. Tell him
that for love of him I might have been ready even to give my hand to
the blood-stained Caesar, but that Fate--and perhaps the manes of her we
loved, and who is dead--have ordered it otherwise."

She then went into the room where her mother had closed her eyes. After
a short prayer by that bed, which still stood there, she hastened to
Philip's room. He lay sleeping heavily; she bent over him and kissed
the too high brow, which looked as though even in sleep the brain within
were still busy over some difficult and painful question.

Her way led her once more through her father's work-room, and she had
already crossed it when she hastily turned back to look once more--for
the last time-at the little table where she had sat for so many years,
busy with her needle, in modest contentment by the artist's side,
dreaming with waking eyes, and considering what she, with her small
resources and great love, could do that would be of use to those she
loved, or relieve them if they were in trouble. Then, as though she knew
that she was bidding a last farewell to all the pleasant companionship
of her youth, she looked at the birds, long since gone to roost in their
cages. In spite of his recent curule honors Heron had not forgotten
them, and, before quitting the house to display himself to the populace
in the 'toga pretexa', he had as usual carefully covered them up. And
now, as Melissa lifted the cloth from the starling's cage, and the bird
muttered more gently than usual, and perhaps in its sleep, the cry,
"Olympias!" a shudder ran through her; and, as she stepped out into the
road by Alexander's side, she said, dejectedly:

"Everything is coming to an end! Well, and so it may; for what has come
over us all in these few days? Before Caesar came, what were you--what
was Philip? In my own heart what peace reigned!

"And my father? There is one comfort, at any rate; even as praetor he
has not forgotten his birds, and he will find feathered friends go where
he may.

"But I--And it is for my sake that he must hide like a criminal!"

But here Alexander vehemently broke in: "It was not you, it was I who
brought all this misery on us!" And he went on to accuse h