en flew over to you yesterday she was
driven away with stones. Did Phaon mistake her for a vulture with sharp
beak and powerful talons?"

"A maid-servant drove her away, because, since your master has been ill
and no longer able to attend to business, your poultry daily feeds upon
our barley."

"I'm surprised you don't brand us as robbers!" cried Semestre. "Yes, if
you had beaten me yourself with a stick, you would say a dry branch of a
fig or olive tree had accidentally fallen on my back. I know you well
enough, and Leonax, Alciphron's son, not your sleepy Phaon, whom people
say is roaming about when he ought to be resting quietly in the house,
shall have our girl for his wife. It's not I who say so, but Lysander, my
lord and master."

"Your will is his," replied Jason. "Far be it from me to wound the sick
man with words, but ever since he has been ill you've played the master,
and he ought to be called the house-keeper. Ay, you have more influence
under his roof than any one else, but Aphrodite and Eros are a thousand
times more powerful, for you rule by pans, spits, and soft pillows--they
govern hearts with divine, irresistible omnipotence."

Semestre laughed scornfully, and, striking the hard stone floor with her
myrtle-staff, exclaimed:

"My spit is enough, and perhaps Eros is helping it with his arrows, for
Xanthe no longer asks for your Phaon, any more than I fretted for a
person now standing before me when he was young. Eros loves harder work.
People who grow up together and meet every day, morning, noon, and night,
get used to each other as the foot does to the sandal, and the sandal to
the foot, but the heart remains untouched. But when a handsome stranger,
with perfumed locks and costly garments, suddenly meets the maiden,
Aphrodite's little son fits an arrow to his golden bow."

"But he doesn't shoot," cried Jason, "when he knows that another shaft
has already pierced the maiden's heart. Any man can win any girl, except
one whose soul is filled with love for another."

"The gray-headed old bachelor speaks from experience," retorted Semestre,
quickly. "And your Phaon! If he really loved our girl, how could he woo
another or have her wooed for him? It comes to the same thing. But I
don't like to waste so many words. I know our Xanthe better than you, and
she no more cares for her playfellow than the column on the right side of
the hearth yearns toward the one on the left, though they have stood
togethe