r I must give them names, shall be called Charmides, which seems
to correspond with his stately charm, and the younger may be known as
Lucius.

I sat one day with Charmides, listening to a great concert of stringed
and wind instruments, in a portico which gave on a large sheltered
garden. He was much absorbed in the music, which was now of a brisk and
measured beauty, and now of a sweet seriousness which had a very
luxurious effect upon my mind. "It is wonderful to me," said Charmides,
as the last movement drew to a close of liquid melody, "that these
sounds should pass into the heart like wine, heightening and uplifting
the thought--there is nothing so beautiful as the discrimination of
mood with which it affects one, weighing one delicate phrase against
another, and finding all so perfect."

"Yes," I said, "I can understand that; but I must confess that there
seems to me something wanting in the melodies of this place. The music
which I loved in the old days was the music which spoke to the soul of
something further yet and unattainable; but here the music seems to have
attained its end, and to have fulfilled its own desire."

"Yes," said Charmides, "I know that you feel that; your mind is very
clear to me, up to a certain point; and I have sometimes wondered why
you spend your time here, because you are not one of us, as your friend
Cynthia is."

I glanced, as he spoke, to where Cynthia sat on a great carved settle
among cushions, side by side with Lucius, whispering to him with a
smile.

"No," I said, "I do not think I have found my place yet, but I am here,
I think, for a purpose, and I do not know what that purpose is."

"Well," he said, "I have sometimes wondered myself. I feel that you may
have something to tell me, some message for me. I thought that when I
first saw you; but I cannot quite perceive what is in your mind, and I
see that you do not wholly know what is in mine. I have been here for a
long time, and I have a sense that I do not get on, do not move; and yet
I have lived in extreme joy and contentment, except that I dread to
return to life, as I know I must return. I have lived often, and always
in joy--but in life there are constantly things to endure, little things
which just ruffle the serenity of soul which I desire, and which I may
fairly say I here enjoy. I have loved beauty, and not intemperately; and
there have been other people--men and women--whom I have loved, in a
sense; but the lo