I go with my cart wherever I choose." "Then you ought to thank the gods, instead of accusing them." "No, for absence of suffering is not happiness." "And do you believe Leonax happy ?" "Hitherto he seems to be, and the fickle goddess will perhaps remain faithful to him longer than to many others, for he is busy from early till late, and is his father's right-hand.

At least he won't fall into one of the pits Fate digs for mortals." "And that is-- ?" "Weariness.

Thousands are worse, and few better, than your cousin; yes, the maiden he chooses for his wife may rejoice." Xanthe blushed, and the dwarf, as he entered the gate, asked: "Is Leonax wooing his little cousin ?" "Perhaps." "But the little cousin has some one else in her mind." "Who told you so ?" "My hens." "Then remember me to them!" cried Xanthe, who left the juggler and ran straight toward the path leading to the sea.
Just at the point where the latter branched off from the broader road used by carts as well as foot-passengers, stood a singular monument, before which the young girl checked her steps.
The praise the conjurer had lavished on Leonax afforded her little pleasure; nay, she would rather have heard censure of the Messina suitor, for, if he corresponded with the dwarf's portrait, he would be the right man to supply a son's place to her father, and rule as master over the estate, where many things did not go on as they ought.

Then she must forget the faithless night-reveller, Phaon--if she could.
Every possession seems most charming at the time we are obliged to resign it, and never in all her life had Xanthe thought so tenderly and longingly of Phaon as now and on this spot.
The monument, overgrown with blossoming vines, before which she paused, was a singular structure, that had been built of brick between her own and her uncle's garden.
It was in the form of a strong wall, bounded by two tall pillars.

In the wall were three rows of deep niches with arched ceilings, while on the pillars, exquisitely painted upon a brownish-red ground, were the Genius of Death lowering his torch before an offering-altar, and Orpheus, who had released his wife from the realm of shadows and was now bearing her to the upper world.
Many of the niches were still empty, but in some stood vases of semi-transparent alabaster.
The newest, which had found a place in the lowest row, contained the ashes of the young girl's grandfather, Dionysius, and his wife, and another pair of urns the two mothers, her own and Phaon's.
Both had fallen victims on the same day to the plague, the only pestilence that had visited this bright coast within the memory of man.
This had happened eight years ago.
At that time Xanthe was still a child, but Phaon a tall lad.
The girl passed this place ten times a day, often thought of the beloved dead, and, when she chanced to remember them still more vividly, waved a greeting to the dear ashes, because some impulse urged her to give her faithful memory some outward expression.
Very rarely did she recall the day when the funeral-pile had cooled, and the ashes of the two mothers, both so early summoned to the realm of shadows, were collected, placed in the vases, and added to the other urns.