Neue XXXII.

Translation from Edwin Arnold's Poets of Greece.] "She turned pale and asked him: 'Is that your own song ?' "'No,' said he, 'Sappho wrote it fifty years ago.' "'Fifty years ago,' echoed Tachot musingly.
"'Love is always the same,' interrupted the poet; 'women loved centuries ago, and will love thousands of years to come, just as Sappho loved fifty years back.' "The sick girl smiled in assent, and from that time I often heard her humming the little song as she sat at her wheel.

But we carefully avoided every question, that could remind her of him she loved.

In the delirium of fever, however, Bartja's name was always on her burning lips.

When she recovered consciousness we told her what she had said in her delirium; then she opened her heart to me, and raising her eyes to heaven like a prophetess, exclaimed solemnly: 'I know, that I shall not die till I have seen him again.' "A short time ago we had her carried into the temple, as she longed to worship there again.