"Yes, a violet-leaf," repeated the conjurer.

"Put it in my hand.

There are--just look here--there are seven lines, and seven--everybody knows that--seven is the number of health.
Peaceful happiness in good health, that is what your oracle says." "The gods owe me that, after suffering so long," sighed Lysander.

"At any rate, come back here in a year, and if your cackling Pythia and this little leaf tell the truth, and I am permitted to bring it to you without support or crutch, I'll give you a stout piece of cloth for a new cloak; yet nay, better try your luck in six months, for your chiton looks sicker than I, and will hardly last a whole year." "Not half a one," replied the conjurer, with a sly smile.

"Give me the piece of stuff to-day, that, when I come back in a month, I may have suitable garments when I amuse the guests at the feast given for your recovery.