the daughter of the only woman for whom his heart had ever beat a shade
faster, to the baptismal font. In the heat of summer Olympias had often
been the guest for weeks together of Polybius's wife, now likewise dead.
Then she had taken a little house of her own for herself and her
children, and when his master's wife died, the lonely widower had known
no greater pleasure than that of receiving her on his estate for as long
as Heron would allow her to remain; he himself never left his work for
long. Thus Andreas had become the great ally of the gem-cutter's
children, and, as they could learn nothing from him that was not good and
worth knowing, Olympias had gladly allowed them to remain in his society,
and herself found a teacher and friend in the worthy steward. She knew
that Andreas had joined the Christians; she had made him tell her much
about his faith; still, as the daughter and wife of artists, she was
firmly attached to the old gods, and could only regard the Christian
doctrine as a new system of philosophy in which many things attracted
her, but many, on the other hand, repelled her. At that time his passion
for Melissa's mother had possessed him so wholly that his life was a
constant struggle against the temptation to covet his neighbor's wife.
And he had conquered, doing severe penance for every glance which might
for an instant betray to her the weakness of his soul. She had loved
flowers, and he knew the plant-world so well, and was so absolutely
master over everything which grew and bloomed in the gardens of which he
had charge, that he could often intrust his speechless favorites to tell
her things which lips and eyes might not reveal. Now she was no more,
and the culture of plants had lost half its charm since her eyes could no
longer watch their thriving. He now left the gardens for the most part
to his men, while he devoted himself to other cares with double
diligence, and to the strictest exercises of his faith.

But, as many a man adores the children of the woman he might not marry,