One day Atossa put the same idea in words, exclaiming: "If Parmys were
only a boy! He would have grown up exactly like his father, and have
been a second Cyrus for Persia." Sappho smiled sadly at her friend, and
covered the little one with kisses, but Kassandane said: "Be thankful to
the gods, my child, for having given you a daughter. If Parmys were a
boy, he would be taken from you as soon as he had reached his sixth year,
to be brought up with the sons of the other Achaemenidae, but your
daughter will remain your own for many years."

Sappho trembled at the mere thought of parting from her child; she
pressed its little fair curly head close to her breast, and never found,
fault with her treasure again for being a girl.

Atossa's friendship was a great comfort to her poor wounded heart. With
her she could speak of Bartja as much and as often as she would, and was
always certain of a kind and sympathizing listener. Atossa had loved her
vanished brother very dearly. And even a stranger would have enjoyed
hearing Sappho tell of her past happiness. Her words rose into real
eloquence in speaking of those bright days; she seemed like an inspired
poetess. Then she would take her lyre, and with her clear, sweet,
plaintive voice sing the love-songs of the elder Sappho, in which all her
own deepest feelings were so truly expressed, and fancy herself once more
with her lover sitting under the sweet-scented acanthus in the quiet
night, and forget the sad reality of her present life. And when, with a
deep sigh, she laid aside the lyre and came back out of this dream-
kingdom, the tears were always to be seen in Kassandane's eyes, though
she did not understand the language in which Sappho had been singing,
and Atossa would bend down and kiss her forehead.