"What need the wise man care about that question? Let him do his duty in this life and leave the rest to the powers above. But I did not come to discuss philosophy. came rather to remind thee of the promise made that night."

I

"So even your stoicism condescends to the reminder? Well, I stand by my promise. Indeed, I never dreamed of withdrawing. Your Cleon shall wed my Zoë. But be not in such haste. The maiden is young-almost a child. I would keep her with me longer a little longer." And a touch of wistful tenderness, that was almost pathetic, stole unawares into the speaker's voice.

"Far from desiring to rob you of her, I came to say that upon mature reflection I do | not think the bargain a fair one; and if such be your mind also, I am willing to let the promise be as though it had been spoken

never.

Lysippus looked surprised, and almost angry. He half raised himself, and resting his elbow on the couch, gazed fixedly in the face of the Stoic. "A promise is a promise," he said.

"Do not, I pray you, be offended," Olympius replied. "I merely remind you that when conditions alter promises cease to bind." "What conditions have altered here, save perhaps your will?" Lysippus sharply inquired. "Were I to give the prefect's son a hint of this, I should have him at my feet to-morrow morning!"

"And then, perhaps, you might do justice to me and my motives. Can it be right that I and my son should stand between your child and the brilliant alliance you might otherwise make for her? Hear me, Lysippus. When you promised, that night I hid you in my father's tomb, that my son should wed your daughter, nothing was farther from your thought or mine, than that Zoë was to be sole heiress of your lands, your villas, your slaves, your jewels, your gold and silver. You had then three noble sons."

Why remind me of losses and sorrows long forgotten? "

"Because I must. Your two fair boys who died of the pestilence, your noble eldest son, shipwrecked on his way to Athens, seemed then to be your destined heirs. But now Zoë for wealth might wed the Cæsar, and wear purple slippers."

"I know he does," returned the Epicurean "It is for that I like him. The lad gaily. has sense enough to know whom to please, and wit enough to do it. As now he makes himself agreeable to me, so will he hereafter to prefects and princes."

"He has not the spirit of a philosopher," Olympius objected.

"No, by Hercules!" laughed Lysippus. "Not the spirit to sup on lentils in a threadbare cloak;—but quite spirit enough to feast on red mullet and the tongues of nightingales, to quaff the best wine of Cyprus, and to season it with many a song and jest; quite spirit enough to make his way in the bowers of the fair, or the halls of the great. Let Cleon only know what he means to do, and I will be his warrant he will do it. That is the temper I desire in a son-in-law. Understand me, friend Olympius. I am rich enough, in all conscience; too rich, you may think. I desire no more lands, villas, slaves, and so forth, for myself or for Zoë, as I have the trouble to explain now and then to my steward Theodorus. The fellow is so impracticably honest and faithful—a rare fault nowadays-that wealth will multiply under his hand, let me do what I please to scatter it. And not only will he not rob me himself, which is ridiculous, but I have reason to think he objects to my other people doing it, which must be tiresome. But to return― I do not desire, for myself, power, place, or greatness. If I had them, it would be too much trouble to use or keep them. But Zoe's broad white brow is worthy of the diadem of Augusta." (A gleam of pride and pleasure crossed the father's face.) "That her sons should be great is something which even I am not ashamed to wish for. My gold and Cleon's talents shall smooth their way to greatness. A wealthy grandfather, an adroit and supple father-so clever youths climb to power. Say no more; the thing is settled. Send the boy over to sup with me to-night, and bid him bring his lute. He touches it as deftly as Apollo, with the additional advantage of looking like the god."

A sneer, not pleasant to see, passed over the stern face of Cleon's father. "He takes care you shall,” he said.

Christian dogs have induced the Emperor to sign an edict devoting our temples to destruction."

Lysippus laughed scornfully. "Oh, ay!

'tis said.

'Tis said they are going to pull the Serapeium down about our ears. Let them try!" Then changing his tone, and pointing towards a rich embroidered curtain: "Will you not see your pupil? Zoë is there."

“There?” the Stoic repeated, less stoically than might have been expected. "Why did you not tell me? She may have heard my every word."

"She has heard nothing; she is at her books."

"Ah!" sighed Olympius; "why did the gods give thee the philosopher, enshrining the spirit within the form of a maiden, and me the fop and idler, with the beard and the toga virilis? Would the two could change souls, or sexes!" So saying he raised the curtain.

In the small apartment, or alcove, which was thus disclosed, sat a young girl, apparently little more than sixteen. Her intent face, bent low over the scroll she was reading, and shaded by luxuriant masses of rich golden hair, was moulded in the highest type of Grecian beauty, not yet, however, come to its full perfection. She did not seem conscious of the presence of Olympius until his voice summoned her from the world of dreams to that of reality.

"Hail! well-beloved pupil. What is your study to-day?”

"Hail! dear master. I read the Phædo." "For the first time?"

"As thou knowest." And the girl cast an involuntary longing glance at the scroll which respect for her teacher had forced her, unwillingly, to lay aside.

Olympius regarded her attentively. The Stoic owned as the founder of his school, not the imaginative Plato, but the stern and practical Zeno; nor did he share to any great extent the general enthusiasm of all sects for the prince of Grecian philosophers. But of course he wished his pupil to be acquainted with writings so celebrated.

"There is much to be learned from Plato, if he be read with intelligence," he admitted candidly.

Zoë's blue eyes sparkled through gathering tears. "I have never read anything like this before," she said. "It is beautiful! Not because Socrates was not afraid to die-you have always taught me that a brave man ought to know no fear, or at least to act as if he knew none; not even, I think, because he | refused to escape, preferring justice to life itself; but because-oh, I cannot tell you!"

"Try to tell me; it is unphilosophical to

say you like a thing, and to be unable to render a reason. It is childish."

Zoë paused, perplexed; then a dreamy, far-away light kindled her violet eyes. "I have stood on the sea-shore," she said; "I have watched the little blue waves dancing in the sunlight and melting in the sand; I have let them bathe my uncovered feet, and played with them, and ran away and laughed, and they ran after me and laughed too. I thought that was beautiful. But it was much more beautiful to stand quite still, and look over the waves, away, away-till the deep blue melted into blinding white, and sky and sea met, and there seemed no end, no limit, only a long, long vista of light and glory-more light, more glory-far as the eye could see.”

"Well?" said Olympius impatiently. "I asked your opinion of the Phædo, and you talk idly of the sea!"

"Because the thoughts here"-Zoë laid her hand on the scroll-"are like the sea, beautiful, and like it, without end or limit. They make my soul long to go forth and follow them, and see what is beyond. For there is more beyond-more light, more glory. Oh, dear master!" she cried, her dreamy tone suddenly changing to one of intense earnestness, “tell me, did we indeed live before we were born into this lower world? and shall we shall we certainly live again after we die?"

Let

"Poor child! Art thou troubling thyself with these old insoluble problems? them alone, Zoë, for they are endless as they are useless. The first thou canst never know, the second thou needest not care to know."

"But I do care, Olympius; I care intensely. I care for nothing else in the world half so much," cried Zoë impetuously.

"Then must you learn wisdom, which is self-control and temperance. The knowledge you desire is unattainable, and, were it attainable, would be useless. Live here like a wise man, and leave the rest to the gods and to thy destiny."

"Live like a wise man," said the Stoic to the passionate-hearted girl. His system had no place for woman as such, no recognition of her wants, weaknesses, aspirations. And the girl responded with a sigh, "I will try, Olympius.”

"Farewell, dear pupil."

"Farewell, dear master." Almost before he had turned away, Zoë was buried in her scroll once more. A rare and exquisite joy illumined her fine thoughtful face, a joy most of us have known, though not too often.

"Poetic book sublime, Soul-kissed for the first dear time,"

leaves an impression seldom afterwards effaced.

But joy was not the ordinary expression of Zoë's large violet eyes and broad low forehead. A dreamy sadness, a wistful weariness and languor too often shadowed those fair young features. Surrounded by every luxury that could minister to the senses, the idol of a father who thought pleasure the chief good, and therefore did all that in him lay to make his daughter's life exquisitely pleasant, yet Zoë was not happy. She knew not freedom. Even her outward life was bound as it were with silken cords, soft and fine, yet strong; while the aspirations of her soul were fettered with links of iron. She was the virtuous daughter of a rich and dissolute Epicurean; she was the pupil of a Stoic. Slaves waited on her every footstep, anticipated her every wish. A beautiful, delicately reared Grecian girl brushed and plaited her golden hair, another prepared her bath, a third presided over the costly unguents and perfumes of which she made lavish use. She had nothing to do for herself, and of course she had nothing to do for others; it was not from philosophy that the world learned that service is the test of greatness. Even those little domestic cares and occupations which so often help to keep a woman's life pure and healthful-destroying, as birds do, the worms of discontent, morbidness, selfishness-were impossible in that overgrown household of idle, pampered slaves.

Her pleasures were nearly as restricted as her duties. It is true that custom allowed even virtuous maidens ---what it ought to have forbidden them--the magnificent abominations of the theatre. But it forbade them, and with good reason, many other forms of excitement. Zoë never even saw the revellers who partook of her father's lavish and costly hospitality. She might hear, in her distant apartments, faint echoes of the songs, the laughter, the drunken revelry of the guests, but these awakened neither wonder, curiosity, nor interest. If she desired to roam beyond her father's splendid gardens, a horse litter or covered carriage was ready to convey her, with proper attendance. In this way she could exchange very unexciting visits with the wives and daughters of other wealthy citizens, when the talk was of the theatre, the wheat ships, the rising of the Nile, and the ladies' jewels and dresses.

Her heart was nearly as empty of interests as her life. She was warmly attached to her

father, but she was not much with him, and they differed too widely to be real companions. Her mother died in her infancy, and the loss of her three brothers had come while she was still a little child. Of the two younger ones she thought but seldom, though she still cherished for the eldest—whom she remembered as a brave, beautiful boy, her playfellow and protector--a tender, fanciful affection. She was quite aware that she was the destined bride of Cleon, the son of Olympius, and she was quite content with her destiny. She was the daughter of Lysippus, she was to be the wife of Cleon; and she as little dreamed of complaining of or wishing to alter one fact as the other. Cleon himself she certainly did not hate, she probably did not love; she was not insensible to his delicate, polished flattery, but she wished him more obedient to his father, more devoted to study, and less fond of the lute and the wine-cup.

He

Her father had early intrusted her education to his old friend Ölympius. The Stoic soon perceived the remarkable abilities of his pupil, and bestowed his best energies upon her; giving her instruction of such quality and quantity as rarely fell in those days to the lot of virtuous women. Geometry, astronomy, history, music (under which name the Ancients included not only singing, but dancing, and the art of reciting poetry), had each a share of attention. But of course philosophy, as Olympius understood it, occupied the principal place. expected the eager, warm-hearted girl to accept the austere precepts of the Porch, not only as her philosophy, but as her religion. It is true she was taught to pay a certain outward observance to Zeus, Phoebus, Athené, and the rest, partly as tutelary powers, partly as graceful symbolisms; and the rather, in protest against the vulgar and unphilosophical modern superstition called Christianity. But the bread on which her soul was to live were maxims inculcating virtue, and chiefly the negative virtues of temperance and self-control. and it was innutritive: the most important elements of human sustenance were not found in it. So her spirit pined and starved in the midst of apparent plenty.

The bread was dry,

Thus Zoë was prepared to make one of the thousand souls for whom Plato, the poetphilosopher, has opened for the first time an outlook on the infinite." To the "temperance" of which she had already heard more than enough, the Socratic dialogues added, though in a vague, imperfect form, the

ideas of “righteousness" and "judgment to come." That "Justice" that Socrates died rather than violate was then first felt by her to be a real, grand, terrible thing, something outside of, and more than ourselves, which it is worth while to live for, or even at need to die for-as he did. And that life after death, of which the dying philosopher reasoned with such inimitable dignity and pathos while the poison was preparing, made her feel as though a window had suddenly been thrown open in a blank, hard, impenetrable wall, and she was looking forth into boundless, limitless space.

Phædo

knowledge of her need nor the power to express it? Or was it indeed not Plato, but Another, who called her, wakening her soul out of its slumber? And was it only because she knew not that voice that she ran to philosophy with the cry of her young heart's eager devotion, "Here am I, for thou didst call me." Was she doomed to have the call denied, the hope disappointed; to be told, as so many have been told by the guides they have chosen, to lie down and slumber again, for the fancied call was only an echo, a delusion, and sleep the best thing after all?

It is impossible to read the without emotion and admiration, even for us, familiar as we are with the ideas of selfsacrifice, of martyr heroism, of victory over death. To us, the subjects of the King of righteousness and peace, gold has become as brass and silver as stones for plenty; few of us can remember the first time we heard the story of that Sacrifice beside which all others "are made no mention of," and yet through which all others have become possible and easy. But to the young soul, full of enthusiasm for moral and intellectual beauty, on whose horizon nothing greater or grander had ever dawned, it was no wonder that the Athenian sage appeared a demi-god, and his pupil and biographer, what even Christians have too rashly called him, “the divine Plato." This inspired teacher Zoë would believe and obey, and follow to the world's end. Erelong she was fully persuaded of the life before birth of which Plato dreamed. Had she known the words, she could have said, with the modern poet

"Our life is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises in us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar."

She was equally certain of the life beyond the grave: she never grew tired of repeating the vague though noble words Plato ascribes to Socrates. "So prepared, the soul departs into that invisible region which is of its own nature, the region of the divine, the immortals, the wise; and then its lot is to be happy, in a state in which it is freed from fears and wild desires, and the other evils of humanity, and spends the rest of its existence with the gods.'

When she reached this point, Zoë rejoiced and was glad, as one that found great spoil. Would her gladness last? Would Plato give her what her deepest nature asked-what she really needed, though she had neither the

A girl entered, bringing her a tablet bound with silk and sealed. She gave the child back to the nurse, cut the fastenings, and began to read. It was a brief note from her father. "Theodorus, who brings this, will tell the rest," were the concluding words, and these she read aloud, adding, "Fetch the steward hither, Glaucia." Then to the nurse, "Take baby away; but be near at hand. Theodorus will like to see him."

She was still scanning the tablet with a troubled face when Theodorus entered—a man in the prime of life, well though soberly dressed, and in appearance and manner everything that moderns understand by the term " a gentleman.”

Zoë greeted him cordially; and then, glancing at his cap, said with warm, unaffected pleasure," I wish you joy, Theodorus."

"Your noble father, in giving me the boon of freedom, has made me more than ever his servant,” replied the grateful freedman.

'Indeed, you have well deserved it from him and from us all. And now, Theodorus, you will give me yet more cause to wish you joy, you and Lucia?"