her that the little building was to be pulled down, and that the couple
who had inhabited it were evicted from their post, turned out of doors
and had gone elsewhere with all their belongings. But where Doris and
her son had taken themselves no one knew. Arsinoe as she heard these
tidings felt like a sailor whose vessel has grounded on a rocky shore,
and who realizes with horror that every plank and beam be neath him
quivers and gapes. As usual, when she felt too weak to help herself
unaided, her first thought was of Selene, and she decided to hasten off
to her and to ask her what she could do, what was to become of her and
the children.

It was already growing dark. With a swift step, and drying her eyes from
time to time on her peplum as she went, she returned to her own room to
fetch a veil, without which she dared not venture so late into the
streets. On the steps--where the dog had thrown down Selene--she met a
man hurrying past her; in the dim light she fancied he bore some
resemblance to the slave that her father had bought the day before; but
she paid no particular heed, for her mind was full of so many other
things. In the kitchen sat the old negress in front of a lamp and the
children squatted round her; by the hearth sat the baker and the butcher,
to whom her father owed considerable sums and who had come to claim their
dues, for ill news has swifter wings than good tidings, and they had
already heard of the steward's death. Arsinoe took the lamp, begged the
men to wait, went into the sitting-room, passing, not without a shudder,
the body of the man who a few hours since had stroked her cheeks and
looked lovingly into her eyes.

How glad she felt to be able to pay her dead father's debts and save the
honor of his name! She confidently drew the key out of her pocket and
went up to the chest. What was this? She knew, quite positively, that