There await me till I die; prepare
A mansion for me, as again with me
To dwell; for in thy tomb will I be laid,
In the same cedar, by thy side composed:
For e'en in death I will not be disjoined.

EURIPIDES.

It soon became evident that a great change had taken place in Philothea's health. Some attributed it to the atmosphere of Athens, still infected with the plague; others supposed it had its origin in the death of Paralus. The widowed one, far from cherishing her grief, made a strong effort to be cheerful; but her gentle smile, like moonlight in a painting, retained its sweetness when the life was gone. There was something in this perfect stillness of resignation more affecting than the utmost agony of sorrow. She complained of no illness, but grew thinner and thinner, like a cloud gradually floating away, and retaining its transparent beauty to the last. Eudora lavished the most affectionate attentions upon her friend, conscious that she was merely strewing flowers in her pathway to the tomb.

A few weeks after their return to Athens, she said, "Dearest Eudora, do you remember the story of the nymph Erato, who implored the assistance of Areas, when the swelling torrent threatened to carry away the tree over which she presided, and on whose preservation her life depended?"

"I remember it well," replied Eudora: "Dione told it to me when I was quite a child; and I could never after see a tree torn by the lightning, or carried away by the flood, or felled by the woodman, without a shrinking and shivering feeling, lest some gentle, fair-haired Dryad had perished with it."

Philothea answered, "Thus was I affected, when my grandfather first read to me Hesiod's account of the Muses:

'Far round, the dusky earth
Rings with their hymning voices; and beneath
Their many-rustling feet a pleasant sound
Ariseth, as they take their onward way
To their own father's presence.'

"I never after could hear the quivering of summer leaves, or the busy hum of insects, without thinking it was the echoed voices of those

'Thrice three sacred maids, whose minds are knit
In harmony; whose only thought is song.'

"There is a deep and hidden reason why the heart loves to invest every hill, and stream, and tree, with a mysterious principle of life. All earthly forms are but the clothing of some divine ideal; and this truth we feel, though we know it not. But when I spoke of Arcus and the Wood Nymph, I was thinking that Paralus had been the tree, on whose existence my own depended; and that now he was removed, I should not long remain."

Eudora burst into a passionate flood of tears. "Oh, dearest Philothea, do not speak thus," she said. "I shall indeed be left alone in the world. Who will guide me, who will protect me, who will love me when you are gone?"

Her friend endeavoured to calm these agitated feelings, by every soothing art her kindness could suggest.

"I would rather suffer much in silence, than to give you unnecessary pain," she replied, affectionately: "but I ought not to conceal from you that I am about to follow my beloved husband. In a short time, I shall not have sufficient strength to impart all I have to say. You will find my clothing and jewels done up in parcels, bearing the names of those for whom they are intended. My dowry returns to Chrysippus, who gave it; but Pericles has kindly given permission that everything else should be disposed of according to my own wishes. Several of my grandfather's manuscripts, and a copy of Herodotus, which I transcribed while I was in Ionia, are my farewell gifts to him. When the silver tripod, which Paralus gained as a prize for the best tragedy exhibited during the Dionysia, is returned to his father's house, let them be placed within it. The statue of Persephone, (that ominous bridal gift,) and the ivory lyre bestowed by Aspasia, are placed in his trust for the youthful Pericles; together with all the books and garments that belonged to his departed brother. In token of gratitude for the parental care of Clinias and his wife, I have bestowed on them the rich tripod received from Heliodora. In addition to the trifling memorials I have already sent to Melissa, and her artless little Zoila, you will find others prepared for you to deliver, when restored to your peaceful home in Elis. To my faithful Milza I have given all the garments and household goods suited to her condition. My grandfather's books have been divided, as he requested, between Plato and PhilÆmon; the silver harp and the ivory tablet are likewise designed for them. Everything else belongs to you, dearest Eudora. Among many tokens of my affection, you will not value least the ivory cup lined with silver, which PhilÆmon gave me when he departed from Athens. The clasp, representing the Naiades binding Eros in garlands, will, I trust, be worn at your marriage with PhilÆmon."

With tearful eyes, Eudora answered, "Oh, Philothea! in the days of my pride and gayety, I little knew what a treasure I threw from me, when I lost PhilÆmon's love. Had it not been for my own perverse folly, I should at this moment be his happy, honoured wife. The hope of his forgiveness is now the only gleam of sunshine in a world of gloom; but I hardly dare to cherish it."

Philothea kissed her affectionately, and said, "Believe me, you will yet be united. Of this, there is an impression on my mind too strong to admit of doubt. If at times you are tempted to despond, remember these words were uttered by your friend, when she drew near the confines of another world: you will be united to PhilÆmon."

As she spoke, Milza, who was occupied in the next apartment, sneezed aloud. The sound was at Eudora's right hand, and she received the auspicious omen with a sudden thrill of joy.

Philothea observed her emotion with a gentle smile, and added: "When we were at Elis, I wrote an epistle to PhilÆmon, in which I spoke of you as my heart dictated; and Artaphernes found opportunity to send it directly into Persia."

The maiden blushed deeply and painfully, as she replied, "Nay, my dearest friend—you know that I must appear contemptible in his eyes; and I would not have insulted him with the offer of a heart, which he has reason to believe is so capricious and ungrateful."

"Trust me, I said nothing whereby your modesty might be wounded," answered Philothea: "I wrote as I was moved; and I felt strong assurance that my words would waken a response in PhilÆmon's heart. But there is one subject, on which my mind is filled with foreboding. I hope you will leave Athens as soon as it is safe to return to Elis."

"Do you then fear that I would again dance over a pit, because it was artfully covered with garlands?" said Eudora. "Believe me, I have been tried with too many sorrows, and too long been bowed under a load of shame, to be again endangered by such treacherous snares."

Philothea looked upon her affectionately, as she replied: "You are good and pure; but you have ever been like a loving and graceful vine, ready to cling to its nearest support."

"'Tis you have made me so," rejoined Eudora, kissing her pale cheek: "To you I have always applied for advice and instruction; and when you gave it, I felt confident and happy, as if led by the gods."

"Then so much the more need that I should caution the weakness I have produced," responded Philothea. "Should Aspasia gain access to you, when I am gone, she will try to convince you that happiness consists not in the duties we perform, but in the distinction we acquire; that my hopes of Elysium are all founded on fable; that my beloved Paralus has returned to the elements of which he was composed; that he nourishes the plants, and forms some of the innumerable particles of the atmosphere. I have seen him in my dreams, as distinctly, as I ever saw him; and I believe the same power that enabled me to see him when these poor eyes were veiled in slumber, will restore him to my vision when they are closed in eternal sleep. Aspasia will tell you I have been a beautiful but idle dreamer all my life. If you listen to her syren tongue, the secret guiding voice will be heard no more. She will make evil appear good, and good evil, until your soul will walk in perpetual twilight, unable to perceive the real size and character of any object."

"Never," exclaimed Eudora. "Never could she induce me to believe you an idle dreamer. Moreover, she will never again have opportunity to exert influence over me. The conversation I heard between her and Alcibiades is too well impressed upon my memory; and while that remains unforgotten, I shall shun them both, as I would shun a pestilence."

Philothea answered: "I do indeed believe that no blandishments will now make you a willing victim. But I have a secret dread of the character and power of Alcibiades. It is his boast that he never relinquishes a pursuit. I have often heard Pericles speak of his childish obstinacy and perseverance. He was one day playing at dice with other boys, when a loaded wagon came near. In a commanding tone, he ordered the driver to stop; and finding his injunctions disregarded, he laid down before the horses' feet, and told him to go on if he dared. The same character remains with him now. He will incur any hazard for the triumph of his own will. From his youth, he has been a popular idol; a circumstance which has doubtless increased the requirements of his passions, without diminishing the stubbornness of his temper. Milza tells me he has already inquired of her concerning your present residence and future intentions. Obstacles will only increase his eagerness and multiply his artifices.

"I have asked Clinias, whose dwelling is so closely connected with our own, to supply the place of your distant guardian, while you remain in Athens. In Pericles you might likewise trust, if he were not so fatally under the influence of Aspasia. Men think so lightly of these matters, I sometimes fear they might both regard the persecutions of Alcibiades too trivial for their interference. For these reasons I wish you to return to Elis as soon as possible when I am gone."

Eudora's countenance kindled with indignation, as she listened to what Milza had told. In broken and contrite tones, she answered; "Philothea, whatever trials I may suffer, my former folly deserves them all. But rest assured, whenever it pleases the gods to remove your counsel and protection, I will not abide in Athens a single hour after it is possible to leave with safety."

"I find consolation in that assurance," replied Philothea; "and I have strong belief that a divine shield will guard you from impending evil. And now I will go to my couch; for I am weary, and would fain be lulled with music."

Eudora tenderly arranged the pillows, and played a succession of sweet and plaintive tunes, familiar to their childhood. Her friend listened with an expression of tranquil pleasure, slowly keeping time by the motion of her fingers, until she sunk into a peaceful sleep.

After long and sweet repose, she awoke suddenly, and looking up with a beaming glance, exclaimed, "I shall follow him soon!"

Eudora leaned over the couch, to inquire why she had spoken in such delighted accents.

Philothea answered: "I dreamed that I sat upon a bank of violets, with Paralus by my side; and he wove a garland and placed it on my head. Suddenly, golden sounds seemed floating in the air, melting into each other with liquid melody. It was such a scene as Paralus often described, when his soul lived apart from the body, and only returned at intervals, to bring strange tidings of its wanderings. I turned to tell him so; and I saw that we were both clothed in garments that shone like woven sunbeams. Then voices above us began to sing:

'Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!'

"Even after I awoke, I seemed to hear the chorus distinctly. It sounded like the voice of Paralus in his youth, when we used to sing together, to please my grandfather, as he sat by the side of that little sheltered brook, over whose bright waters the trees embrace each other in silent love. Dearest Eudora, I shall soon follow him."

The maiden turned away to conceal her tears; for resignation to this bereavement seemed too hard a lesson for her suffering heart.

For several weeks, there was no apparent change in Philothea's health or spirits. The same sad serenity remained—perpetually exciting the compassion it never seemed to ask. Each day the children of the neighbourhood brought their simple offering of flowers, with which she wove fresh garlands for the tomb of Paralus. When no longer able to visit the sepulchre herself, she intrusted them to the youthful Pericles, who reverently placed them on his brother's urn.

The elder Pericles seemed to find peculiar solace in the conversation of his widowed daughter. Scarcely a day passed without an interview between them, and renewed indications of his affectionate solicitude.

He came one day, attended by his son, on whom his desolated heart now bestowed a double portion of paternal love. They remained a long time, in earnest discourse; and when they departed, the boy was in tears.

Philothea, with feeble steps, followed them to the portico, and gazed after them, as long as she could see a fold of their garments. As she turned to lean on Eudora's arm, she said, "It is the last time I shall ever see them. It is the last. I have felt a sister's love for that dear boy. His heart is young and innocent."

For a few hours after, she continued to talk with unusual animation, and her eyes beamed with an expression of inspired earnestness. At her request, Geta and Milza were called; and the faithful servants listened with mournful gratitude to her parting words of advice and consolation.

At evening twilight, Eudora gave her a bunch of flowers, sent by the youthful Pericles. She took them with a smile, and said, "How fragrant is their breath, and how beautiful their colours! I have heard that the Persians write their music in colours; and Paralus spoke the same concerning music in the spirit-world. Perchance there was heavenly melody written on this fair earth in the age of innocence; but mortals have now forgotten its language." Perceiving Eudora's thoughtful countenance, she said: "Is my gentle friend disturbed, lest infant nymphs closed their brief existence when these stems were broken?"

"Nay;" replied Eudora: "My heart is sad; but not for the perished genii of the flowers."

Philothea understood the import of her words; and pressing her hand affectionately, said, "Your love has been as balm to my lonely heart; and let that remembrance comfort you, when I go hence. Listen in stillness to the whispered warnings of your attendant spirit, and he will never leave you. I am weary; and would fain repose on your affectionate bosom."

Eudora gently placed her head as she desired; and carefully supporting the precious burden, she began to sing, in low and soothing tones.

After some time, the quiet and regular respiration of the breath announced that the invalid had fallen into tranquil slumber. Milza came, to ask if the lamps were wanted; but receiving a silent signal from Eudora, she crept noiselessly away.

For more than an hour, there was perfect stillness, as the shades of evening deepened. All at once, the room was filled with soft, clear light! Eudora turned her head quickly, to discover whence it came; but could perceive no apparent cause for the sudden radiance.

With an undefined feeling of awe, she looked in the countenance of her friend. It was motionless as marble; but never had she seen anything so beautiful, and so unearthly.

As she gazed, doubting whether this could indeed be death, there was a sound of music in the air—distinct, yet blended, like the warbling of birds in the spring-time.

It was the tune Paralus had learned from celestial harps; and even after the last note floated away, Eudora seemed to hear the well-remembered words:

Come hither, kindred spirit, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!