owed; there is no law to enjoin it. My father had, it is true,
a hundred female slaves, but only one real, true wife, our mother
Kassandane."

"And I will be your Kassandane."

"No, my Sappho, for what you will be to me, no woman ever yet was to her
husband."

"When shall you come to fetch me?"

"As soon as I can, and am permitted to do so."

"Then I ought to be able to wait patiently."

"And shall I ever hear from you?"

"Oh, I shall write long, long letters, and charge every wind with loving
messages for you."

"Yes, do so, my darling; and as to the letters, give them to the
messenger who will bring Nitetis tidings from Egypt from time to time."

"Where shall I find him?"

"I will see that a man is stationed at Naukratis, to take charge of
everything you send to him. All this I will settle with Melitta."

"Yes, we can trust her, she is prudent and faithful; but I have another
friend, who is dearer to me than any one else excepting you, and who
loves me too better than any one else does, but you--"

"You mean your grandmother Rhodopis."

"Yes, my faithful guardian and teacher."

"Ah, she is a noble woman. Croesus considers her the most excellent
among women, and he has studied mankind as the physicians do plants and
herbs. He knows that rank poison lies hidden in some, in others healing
cordials, and often says that Rhodopis is like a rose which, while
fading away herself, and dropping leaf after leaf, continues to shed
perfume and quickening balsam for the sick and weak, and awaits in
patience the wind which at last shall waft her from us."

"The gods grant that she may be with us for a long time yet! Dearest,
will you grant me one great favor?"

"It is granted before I hear it."

"When you take me home, do not leave Rhodopis here. She must come with
us. She is so kind and loves me so fervently, that what makes me happy
will make her so too, and whatever is dear to me, will seem to her
worthy of being loved."

"She shall be the first among our guests."

"Now I am quite happy and satisfied, for I am necessary to my
grandmother; she could not live without her child. I laugh her cares and
sorrows away, and when she is singing to me, or teaching me how to guide
the style, or strike the lute, a clearer light beams from her brow,
the furrows ploughed by grief disappear, her gentle eyes laugh, and she
seems to forget the evil past in the happy present."

"Before we part, I will ask her whether she w