Aye, it is good, it is very good to die thus." "Oh, father, father!" cried Klea.

"You must not speak so.

You must live, you must not die; for see, Publius here asks me to be his wife, and the Immortals only can know how glad I am to go with him, and Irene is to stay with us, and be my sister and his.

That must make you happy, father .-- But tell us, pray tell us where the wound hurts that the murderer gave you ?" "Children, children," murmured the anchorite, and a happy smile parted his lips.

"The gracious gods are merciful in permitting me to see that--aye, merciful to me, and to effect that end I would have died twenty deaths." Klea pressed his now cold hand to her lips as he spoke and again asked, though hardly able to control her voice for tears: "But the wound, father--where is the wound ?" "Let be, let be," replied Serapion.