looked imploringly at her friend, as she said, "You love _me_,
Philothea; and I am sure we are very different."

"I crave pardon," interrupted Aspasia, with haughty impatience. "I
should have remembered that the conversation prized by Pericles and
Plato, might appear contemptible, to this youthful Pallas, who so
proudly seeks to conceal her precious wisdom from ears profane."

"Lady, you mistake me," answered Philothea, mildly: "Your intellect,
your knowledge, are as far above mine, as the radiant stars are above
the flowers of the field. Besides, I never felt contempt for anything to
which the gods had given life. It is impossible for me to despise you;
but I pity you."

"Pity!" exclaimed Aspasia, in a piercing tone, which made both the
maidens start. "Am I not the wife of Pericles, and the friend of Plato?
Has not Phidias modelled his Aphrodite from my form? Is there in all
Greece a poet who has not sung my praises? Is there an artist who has
not paid me tribute? Phoenicia sends me her most splendid manufactures
and her choicest slaves; Egypt brings her finest linen and her metals of
curious workmanship; while Persia unrolls her silks, and pours out her
gems at my feet. To the remotest period of time, the world,--aye, the
_world_,--maiden, will hear of Aspasia, the beautiful and the gifted!"

For a moment, Philothea looked on her, silently and meekly, as she stood
with folded arms, flushed brow, and proudly arched neck. Then, in a
soft, sad voice, she answered: "Aye, lady--but will your spirit _hear_
the echo of your fame, as it rolls back from the now silent shores of
distant ages?"