the day were not long enough. The beds must be put in the front room; I
insist upon it."

The slave shook her head, and stammered an answer, "Phoebicius will not
have it so."

Sirona's eyes flashed angrily, and her voice, which was particularly
sweet, trembled slightly as she asked, "What is wrong with him again?"

"He says," replied the slave, "that the senator's son, Polykarp, goes
oftener past your window than altogether pleases him, and it seems to
him, that you occupy yourself more than is necessary with his little
brothers and sisters, and the other children up there."

"Is he still in there?" asked Sirona with glowing cheeks, and she
pointed threateningly to the dwelling-room.

"The master is out," stuttered the old woman. "He went out before
sunrise. You are not to wait for breakfast, he will not return till
late."

The Gaulish lady made no answer, but her head fell, and the deepest
melancholy overspread her features. The greyhound seemed to feel for the
troubles of his mistress, for he fawned upon her, as if to kiss her. The
solitary woman pressed the little creature, which had come with her from
her home, closely to her bosom; for an unwonted sense of wretchedness
weighed upon her heart, and she felt as lonely, friendless, and
abandoned, as if she were driving alone--alone--over a wide and shoreless
sea. She shuddered, as if she were cold--for she thought of her husband,
the man who here in the desert should have been all in all to her, but