made her recline on the
couch by his side.

Andreas also shared the supper; and not the attendant slaves only, but
Dame Praxilla, the sister of their host, whose house she managed, paid
him particular honor. She was a widow and childless, and, even during the
lifetime of Diodoros's mother, she had given her heart, no longer young,
to the freedman, without finding her love returned or even observed. For
his sake she would have become a Christian, though she regarded herself
as so indispensable to her brother that she had rarely left him to hold
intercourse with other Christians. Nor did Andreas encourage her; he
doubted her vocation. Whatever happened in the house, the excitable woman
made it her own concern; and, although she had known Melissa from
childhood, and was as fond of her as she could be of the child of
"strangers," the news that Diodoros was to marry the gem-cutter's
daughter was displeasing to her. A second woman in the house might
interfere with her supremacy; and, as an excuse for her annoyance, she
had represented to her brother that Diodoros might look higher for a
wife. Agatha, the beautiful daughter of their rich Christian neighbor
Zeno, was the right bride for the boy.

But Polybius had rated her sharply, declaring that he hoped for no
sweeter daughter than Melissa, who was quite pretty enough, and in whose
veins as pure Macedonian blood flowed as in his own. His son need look
for no wealth, he added with a laugh, since he would some day inherit his
aunt's.

In fact, Praxilla owned a fine fortune, increasing daily under the care
of Andreas, and she replied:

"If the young couple behave so well that I do not rather choose to bestow
my pittance on worthier heirs."

But the implied threat had not disturbed Polybius, for he knew his
sister's ways. The shriveled, irritable old lady often spoke words hard
to be forgiven, but she had not a bad heart; and when she learned that
Diodoros was in danger, she felt only how much she loved him, and her
proposal to go to the town next morning to nurse him was sincerely meant.

But when her brother retorted: "Go, by all means; I do not prevent you!"
she started up, exclaiming:

"And you, and your aches and pains! How you get on when once my back is
turned, we know by experience. My presence alone is medicine to you."
"And a bitter dose it is very often," replied the old man, with a laugh;
but Praxilla promptly retorted: "Like all effectual remedies. There is