of Death lowering his torch before an offering-altar, and Orpheus, who
had released his wife from the realm of shadows and was now bearing her
to the upper world.

Many of the niches were still empty, but in some stood vases of semi-
transparent alabaster.

The newest, which had found a place in the lowest row, contained the
ashes of the young girl's grandfather, Dionysius, and his wife, and
another pair of urns the two mothers, her own and Phaon's.

Both had fallen victims on the same day to the plague, the only
pestilence that had visited this bright coast within the memory of man.
This had happened eight years ago.

At that time Xanthe was still a child, but Phaon a tall lad.

The girl passed this place ten times a day, often thought of the beloved
dead, and, when she chanced to remember them still more vividly, waved a
greeting to the dear ashes, because some impulse urged her to give her
faithful memory some outward expression.

Very rarely did she recall the day when the funeral-pile had cooled, and
the ashes of the two mothers, both so early summoned to the realm of
shadows, were collected, placed in the vases, and added to the other
urns. But now she could not help remembering it, and how she had sat
before one of the pillars of the monument weeping bitterly, and asking
herself again and again, if it were possible that her mother would never,
never come to kiss her, speak caressing words, arrange her hair and pet
her; nay, for the first time, she longed to hear even a sharp reproof