how I have always felt since those days in Rome whenever Phoebicius
touched me, and yet I dared not scream when he did.

"But Polykarp! oh! would that he were here, and might only grasp my hand.
He said I was his own, and yet I have never encouraged him. But now!
if a danger threatened him or a sorrow, and if by any means I could save
him from it, indeed--indeed--though I never could bear pain well, and am
afraid of death, I would let them nail me to a cross for him, as Thou
wast crucified for us all.

"But then he must know that I had died for him, and if he looked into my
dying eyes with his strange, deep gaze, I would tell him that it is to
him that I owe a love so great that it is a thing altogether different
and higher than any love I have ever before seen. And a feeling that is
so far above all measure of what ordinary mortals experience, it seems to
me, must be divine. Can such love be wrong? I know not; but Thou
knowest, and Thou, whom they name the Good Shepherd, lead Thou us--
each apart from the other, if it be best so for him--but yet, if it be
possible, unite us once more, if it be only for one single hour. If only
he could know that I am not wicked, and that poor Sirona would willingly
belong to him, and to no other, then I would be ready to die. O Thou
good, kind Shepherd, take me too into Thy flock, and guide me."

Thus prayed Sirona, and before her fancy there floated the image of a
lovely and loving youthful form; she had seen the original in the model
for Polykarp's noble work, and she had not forgotten the exquisite
details of the face. It seemed to her as well known and familiar as if
she had known--what in fact she could not even guess--that she herself
had had some share in the success of the work.