with there.
Prosperous in a worldly way, Kimon was enabled to give this favorite
daughter the best educational advantages; and he was justly proud when
at the age of nineteen Xanthippe was graduated from the Minerva Female
College with all the highest honors of her class. There was but one
thing that cast a shadow upon the old gentleman's happiness, and that
was his pain at observing that among all Xanthippe's associates there
was one upon whom she bestowed her sweetest smiles; namely, Gatippus,
the son of Heliopharnes the plasterer.

"My daughter," said Kimon, "you are now of an age when it becomes a
maiden to contemplate marriage as a serious and solemn probability:
therefore I beseech you to practise the severest discrimination in the
choice of your male associates, and I enjoin upon you to have naught to
say or to do with any youth that might not be considered an eligible
husband; for, by the dog! it is my wish to see you wed to one of good
station."

Kimon thereupon proceeded to tell his daughter that his dearest
ambition had been a desire to unite her in marriage with a literary
man. He saw that the tendency of the times was in the direction of
literature; schools of philosophy were springing up on every side,
logic and poetry were prated in every household. Why should not the
beautiful and accomplished daughter of Kimon the fruiterer become one
of that group of geniuses who were contributing at that particular time
to the glory of Athens as the literary centre of the world? The truth
was that, having prospered in his trade, Kimon pined for social
recognition; it grieved him that one of his daughters had wed a tinker,
and he had registered a vow with Pallas that his other daughter should
be given into the arms of a worthier man.

Xanthippe was a dutiful daughter; she had been taught to obey her
parents; and although her heart inclined to Gatippus, the son of
Heliopharnes the plasterer, she smothered all rebellious emotions, and
said she would try to do her father's will. Accordingly, therefore,
Kimon introduced into his home one evening a certain young Athenian
philosopher,--a typical literary Bohemian of that time,--one Socrates,
a creature of wondrous wisdom and ready wit.

The appearance of this suitor, presumptive if not apparent, did not
particularly please Xanthippe. Socrates was an ill-favored young man.
He was tall, raw-boned, and gangling. When he walked, he slouched; and
when he sat down, he