ite her lip hard with her
white teeth to keep herself from crying out with rage and anguish.

How she wished that she could swing herself up to the window on which
Hermas' gaze was fixed, and clutch Sirona's golden hair and tear her
down to the ground, and suck the very blood from her red lips like a
vampire, till she lay at her feet as pale as the corpse of a man dead of
thirst in the desert. Then she saw the light mantle slip from Sirona's
shoulders, and observed Hermas start and press his hand to his heart.

Then another impulse seized her. It was to call to her and warn her of
his presence; for even women who hate each other hold out the hand
of fellowship in the spirit, when the sanctity of woman's modesty is
threatened with danger. She blushed for Sirona, and had actually opened
her lips to call, when the greyhound barked and the dialogue began. Not
a word escaped her sharp ears, and when he told Sirona that she was
as good as she was beautiful she felt seized with giddiness; then
the topmost stone, by which she had tried to steady herself, lost its
balance, its fall interrupted their conversation, and Miriam returned to
the sick man.

Now she was standing at the door, waiting for Hermas. Long, long did
she wait; at last he appeared with Dorothea, and she could see that he
glanced up again at Sirona; but a spiteful smile passed over her lips,
for the window was empty and the fair form that he had hoped to see
again had vanished.

Sirona was now sitting at her loom in the front room, whither she had
been tempted by the sound of approaching hoofs. Polykarp had ridden
by on his father's fine horse, had greeted her as he passed, and had
dropped a rose on the roadway. Half an hour later the old black slave
came to Sirona, who was throwing the shuttle through the warp with a
skilful hand.

"Mistress," cried the negress with a hideous grin; the lonely woman
paused in her work, and as she looked up enquiringly the old woman gave
her a rose. Sirona took the flower, blew away the road-side dust
that had clung to it, rearranged the tumbled delicate petals with her
finger-tips, and said, while she seemed to give the best part of her
attention to this occupation, "For the future let roses be when you find
them. You know Phoebicius, and if any one sees it, it will be talked
about."

The black woman turned away, shrugging her shoulders; but Sirona
thought, "Polykarp is a handsome and charming man, and has finer and
more