s where Pollux had first kissed her.
The shrubs in the garden where she had flung herself into his arms, her
blissful walk in the moonlight, and all the crowd assembled for the
festival, and finally how, possessed by the god, they had together joined
the procession, and danced through the streets. She described, with tears
in her eyes, how painful their parting had been, and laughed again, as
she told how an ivy leaf in her hair had nearly betrayed everything to
her father. So she talked and talked, and there was something that
intoxicated her in her own words.

How they were affecting Selene she did not observe. How could she know
that it was her narrative and no other suffering which made her sister's
lips quiver so sorrowfully? Then, when she went on to speak of the
splendid garments which Julia was having made for her, the suffering girl
listened with only half an ear, but her attention revived when she heard
how much old Plutarch had offered for the ivory cup, and that her father
proposed to exchange their old slave for a more active one.

"Our good black mouse-catching old stork looks shabby enough it is true,"
said Arsinoe, "still I am very sorry he should go away. If you had been
at home, perhaps father would have waited to consider."

Selene laughed drily, and her lips curled scornfully as she said:

"That is the way! go on! two days before you are turned out of house and
home you ride in a chariot and pair!"

"You always see the worst side," said Arsinoe with annoyance. "I tell you
it will all turn out far better and nicer and more happily than we
expect. As soon as we are a little richer we will buy back the old man,
and keep him and feed him till he dies."

Selene shrugged her shoulders, and her sister jumped up from her seat
with her eyes full of tears. She had been so happy in telling how happy
she was that she firmly believed that her story must bring brightness
into the gloom of the sick girl's soul, like sunshine after a dark night;
and Selene had nothing to give her but scornful words and looks. If a
friend refuses to share in joys it is hardly less wounding than if he
were to abandon us in trouble.

"How you always contrive to embitter my happiness!" cried Arsinoe. "I
know very well that nothing that I can do can ever be right in your eyes;
still, we are sisters, and you need not set your teeth and grudge your
words, and shrug your shoulders when I tell you of things which, even a
stranger, if