s a part of it that is purely decorative and a part
that is expressive or emotional. You notice that the general design
and scheme of decoration, although really Greek in feeling, follows
rigidly the Egyptian conventions. But the portrait is entirely in the
Greek manner, and when they came to that pathetic farewell, it had to
be spoken in their own tongue, written in their own familiar
characters."

"Yes. I have noticed that and admired the taste with which they have
kept the inscription so inconspicuous as not to clash with the
decoration. An obtrusive inscription in Greek characters would have
spoiled the consistency of the whole scheme."

"Yes, it would." She assented absently as if she were thinking of
something else, and once more gazed thoughtfully at the mummy. I
watched her with deep content: noted the lovely contour of her cheek,
the soft masses of hair that strayed away so gracefully from her brow,
and thought her the most wonderful creature that had ever trod the
earth. Suddenly she looked at me reflectively.

"I wonder," she said, "what made me tell you about Artemidorus. It was
a rather silly, childish sort of make-believe, and I wouldn't have told
anyone else for the world; not even my father. How did I know that you
would sympathize and understand?"

She asked the question in all simplicity with her serious gray eyes
looking inquiringly into mine. And the answer came to me in a flash,
with the beating of my own heart.

"I will tell you how you know, Ruth," I whispered passionately. "It
was because I loved you more than anyone else in the world has ever
loved you, and you felt my love in your heart and called it sympathy."

I stopped short, for she had blushed scarlet and then turned deathly
pale. And now she looked at me wildly, almost with terror.

"Have I shocked you, Ruth dearest?" I exclaimed penitently, "have I
spoken too soon? If I have, forgive me. But I had to tell you. I
have been eating my heart out for love of you for I don't know how
long. I think I have loved you from the first day we met. Perhaps I
shouldn't have spoken yet, but, Ruth dear, if you only knew what a
sweet girl you are, you wouldn't blame me."

"I don't blame you," she said, almost in a whisper; "I blame myself. I
have been a bad friend to you, who have been so loyal and loving to me.
I ought not to have let this happen. For it can't be, Paul; I can't
say what you want me to say. We can never be any