smile and sparkling eyes that looked
frankly into mine. "I was wondering," said she, "if he was jealous of
my new friend. But what a baby I am to talk such nonsense!"

She laughed softly and happily with just an adorable hint of shyness.

"Why should he be jealous?" I asked.

"Well, you see, before--we were friends, he had me all to himself. I
have never had a man friend before--except my father--and no really
intimate friend at all. And I was very lonely in those days, after our
troubles had befallen. I am naturally solitary, but still, I am only a
girl; I am not a philosopher. So when I felt very lonely, I used to
come here and look at Artemidorus and make believe that he knew all the
sadness of my life and sympathized with me. It was very silly, I know,
but yet, somehow it was a real comfort to me."

"It was not silly of you at all. He must have been a good man, a
gentle, sweet-faced man who had won the love of those who knew him, as
this beautiful memorial tells; and it was wise and good of you to
sweeten the bitterness of your life with the fragrance of this human
love that blossoms in the dust after the lapse of centuries. No, you
were not silly, and Artemidorus is not jealous of your new friend."

"Are you sure?" She still smiled as she asked the question, but her
glance was soft--almost tender--and there was a note of whimsical
anxiety in her voice.

"Quite sure. I give you my confident assurance."

She laughed gaily. "Then," said she, "I am satisfied, for I am sure
you know. But here is a mighty telepathist who can read the thoughts
even of a mummy. A most formidable companion. But tell me how you
know."

"I know because it is he who gave you to me to be my friend. Don't you
remember?"

"Yes, I remember," she answered softly. "It was when you were so
sympathetic with my foolish whim that I felt we were really friends."

"And I, when you confided your pretty fancy to me, thanked you for the
gift of your friendship, and treasured it, and do still treasure it,
above everything on earth."

She looked at me quickly with a sort of nervousness in her manner, and
cast down her eyes. Then, after a few moments' almost embarrassed
silence, as if to bring back our talk to a less emotional plane, she
said:

"Do you notice the curious way in which this memorial divides itself up
into two parts?"

"How do you mean?" I asked a little disconcerted by the sudden descent.

"I mean that there i