t
as possible from her window to the ground floor, in order to speak to
the architect before he went into the inner rooms or had talked with
his sister, and she looked lovelier than ever. Pontius gazed at her with
delight. He knew that he had seen this sweet face before, but he
could not at once remember where; for a face we have met with only
incidentally is not easily recognized when we find it again where we do
not expect it.

Arsinoe did not give him time to speak to her, for she went straight up
to him, greeted him, and asked timidly:

"You do not remember who I am?"

"Yes, yes," said the architect, "and yet--for the moment--"

"I am the daughter of Keraunus, the palace-steward at Lochias, but you
know of course!"

"To be sure, to be sure! Arsinoe is your name; I was asking to-day after
your father and heard to my great regret--"

"He is dead."

"Poor child! How everything has changed in the old palace since I
went away. The gate-house is swept away, there is a new steward and
there-but, tell me how came you here?"

"My father left us nothing and Christians took its in. There were eight
of us."

"And my sister shelters you all?"

"No, no; one has been taken into one house and others into others. We
shall never be together again." And as she spoke the tears ran down
Arsinoe's cheeks; but she promptly recovered herself, and before Pontius
could express his sympathy she went on:

"I want to ask of you a favor; let me speak before any one disturbs us."

"Speak, my child."

"You know Pollux--the sculptor Pollux?"

"Certainly."

"And you were always kindly disposed toward him?"

"He is a good man and an excellent artist."

"Aye that he is, and besides all that--may I tell you something and will
you stand by me?"

"Gladly, so far as lies in my power."

Arsinoe looked down at the ground in charming and blushing confusion and
said in a low tone:

"We love each other--I am to be his wife."

"Accept my best wishes."

"Ah, if only we had got as far as that! But since my father's death we
have not seen each other. I do not know where he and his parents are,
and how are they ever to find me here?"

"Write to him."

"I cannot write well, and even if I could my messenger--"

"Has my sister had any search made for him?"

"No--oh, no. I may not even let his name pass my lips. She wants to give
me to some one else; she says that making statues is hateful to the God
of the Christians."

"Does she