“For heaven’s sake, Agnes, do not take my words so seriously. I assure you they were spoken in jest. I have too high an opinion of your good sense to believe such a calamity possible. But as to Syra’s devotedness, you are right. When last summer you were away, and I was so dangerously ill of contagious fever, it required the lash to make the other slaves approach me; while that poor thing would hardly leave me, but watched by me, and nursed me day and night, and I really believe greatly promoted my recovery.” “And did you not love her for this?” “Love her! Love a slave, child! Of course, I took care to reward her generously; though I cannot make out what she does with what I give her. The others tell me she has nothing put by, and she certainly spends nothing on herself. Nay, I have even heard that she foolishly shares her daily allowance of food with a blind beggar-girl. What a strange fancy, to be sure!” “Dearest Fabiola,” exclaimed Agnes, “she must be mine! You promised me my request. Name your price, and let me take her home this evening.” “Well, be it so, you most irresistible of petitioners. But we will not bargain together. Send some one to-morrow, to see my father’s steward, and all will be right. And now this great piece of business being settled between us, let us go down to our guests.” “But you have forgotten to put on your jewels.” “Never mind them; I will do without them for once; I feel no taste for them to-day.” CHAPTER VI. THE BANQUET. They found, on descending, all the guests assembled in a hall below. It was not a state banquet which they were going to share, but the usual meal of a rich house, where preparation for a tableful of friends was always made. We will therefore content ourselves with saying that every thing was elegant and exquisite in arrangement and material; and we will confine ourselves entirely to such incidents as may throw a light upon our story. When the two ladies entered the exedra or hall, Fabius, after saluting his daughter, exclaimed, “Why, my child, you have come down, though late, still scarcely fittingly arranged! You have forgotten your usual trinkets.” Fabiola was confused. She knew not what answer to make: she was ashamed of her weakness about her angry display; and still more of what she now thought a silly way of punishing herself for it. Agnes stepped in to the rescue, and blushingly said: “It is my fault, cousin Fabius, both that she is late and that she is so plainly dressed. I detained her with my gossip, and no doubt she wishes to keep me in countenance by the simplicity of her attire.”