grapes, figs, pomegranates and sycamore-figs, a fruit resembling
mulberries in flavor which grow in clusters from the trunk of the tree-
between leaves, which the drought and heat of the past weeks had turned
almost yellow. The tempting heap was fast rising in an elegant many-hued
hemisphere; but her thoughts were not in her occupation, for tears were
coursing each other down her cheeks.

"Those tears are for her father," thought the leech as he watched her
from the threshold. "Poor child!"--How often he had heard his old friend
call her so!

And till now he had never thought of her but as a child; but to-day he
must look at her with different eyes--her own father had enjoined it.
And in fact he gazed at her as though he beheld a miracle.

What had come over little Pulcheria?--How was it that he had never
noticed it before?--It was a well-grown maiden that he saw, moving round,
snowwhite arms; and he could have sworn that she had only thin, childish
arms, for she had thrown them round his neck many a time when she had
ridden up and down the garden on his back, calling him her fine horse.

How long ago was that? Ten years! She was now seventeen!

And how slender, and delicate, and white her hands were--those hands for
which her mother had often scolded her when, after building castles of
sand, she had sat down to table unwashed.

Now she was laying the grapes round the pomegranates, and he remembered
how Horapollo, only yesterday, had praised her dainty skill.