When Glaucus arrived at his own house that evening, Nydia was waiting
for him. She had, as usual, been tending the flowers and had lingered
awhile to rest herself.

"It has been warm," said Glaucus. "Wilt thou summon Davus? The wine I
have drunk heats me, and I long for some cooling drink."

Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very opportunity that Nydia
awaited presented itself. She breathed quickly. "I will prepare for you
myself," said she, "the summer draught that Ione loves--of honey and
weak wine cooled in snow."

"Thanks," said the unconscious Glaucus. "If Ione loves it, enough; it
would be grateful were it poison."

Nydia frowned, and then smiled. She withdrew for a few moments, and
returned with the cup containing the beverage. Glaucus took it from her
hand.

What would not Nydia have given then to have seen the first dawn of the
imagined love! Far different, as she stood then and there, were the
thoughts and emotions of the blind girl from those of the vain Pompeian
under a similar suspense!

Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips. He had already drained about a
fourth of its contents, when, suddenly glancing upon the face of Nydia,
he was so forcibly struck by its alteration, by its intense, and
painful, and strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and still
holding the cup near his lips, exclaimed. "Why, Nydia--Nydia, art thou