She then advanced; and as Fabiola saw her, a crimson blush mantled in her cheek; for she feared the child had been witness of her undignified burst of passion. With a cold wave of her hand she dismissed her slaves, and then greeted her kinswoman, for such she was, with cordial affection. We have said that Fabiola’s temper made a few exceptions in its haughty exercise. One of these was her old nurse and freed-woman Euphrosyne, who directed all her private household, and whose only creed was, that Fabiola was the most perfect of beings, the wisest, most accomplished, most admirable lady in Rome. Another was her young visitor, whom she loved, and ever treated with gentlest affection, and whose society she always coveted. “This is really kind of you, dear Agnes,” said the softened Fabiola, “to come at my sudden request, to join our table to-day. But the fact is, my father has called in one or two new people to dine, and I was anxious to have some one with whom I could have the excuse of a duty to converse. Yet I own I have some curiosity about one of our new guests. It is Fulvius, of whose grace, wealth, and accomplishments I hear so much; though nobody seems to know who or what he is, or whence he has sprung up.” “My dear Fabiola,” replied Agnes, “you know I am always happy to visit you, and my kind parents willingly allow me; therefore, make no apologies about that.” [Illustration: Saint Agnes. From an old vase.] “And so you have come to me as usual,” said the other playfully, “in your own snow-white dress, without jewel or ornament, as if you were every day a bride. You always seem to me to be celebrating one eternal espousal. But, good heavens! what is this? Are you hurt? Or are you aware that there is, right on the bosom of your tunic, a large red spot--it looks like blood. If so, let me change your dress at once.” “Not for the world, Fabiola; it is the jewel, the only ornament I mean to wear this evening. It _is_ blood, and that of a slave; but nobler, in my eyes, and more generous, than flows in your veins or mine.” The whole truth flashed upon Fabiola’s mind. Agnes had seen all; and humbled almost to sickening, she said somewhat pettishly, “Do you then wish to exhibit proof to all the world of my hastiness of temper, in over-chastising a forward slave?” “No, dear cousin, far from it. I only wish to preserve for myself a lesson of fortitude, and of elevation of mind, learnt from a slave, such as few patrician philosophers can teach us.” “What a strange idea! Indeed, Agnes, I have often thought that you make too much of that class of people. After all, what are they?” [Illustration: Saint Agnes. From an old vase preserved in the Vatican Museum.]