“When I saw thee impersonate Niobe, my sweet child, mine eyes too were veiled with tears. When, one by one, Niobe loses her children, and sorrow is added to sorrow, grief to grief, the gradual increase of anguish thou didst well portray. But, my dear child, like the perfectly carved statue, beautiful but not living, thou didst lack the power to portray a mother’s grief. Then I saw it not; but to-day verily do I believe that no one could perfectly act the part unless she had suffered as I have.” “In the mirror of the centuries I have never seen a reflection of grief truer than thine, my lady.” “Give me thine hand, dear Psyche,” exclaimed Agrippina. “How warm it feels!” “Thy hand is cold, my lady.” “Ay; so is my heart.” “Fearest thou further woes, my lady?” “Ay, my Psyche. Two sons are still left me. Both are in prison. How long will they be spared?” “They will not die like Nero,” said Psyche, reassuringly. “Ah! when my first brother was murdered, I thought the other two would be spared, but they too fell under the malice of their enemies. My sister has been banished, my mother starved to death, my husband poisoned, my friends cruelly murdered; Nero, my beloved son Nero, has been strangled. Now Drusus is in the dungeon on the Palatine; Caligula is at Capri. Why, oh, why may I not die before I hear of their tragic end? Ah, my dear child, I am like a branch burdened with maturing fruits of grief, broken but living.” “Words cannot comfort thee, my dear lady; let me sing thee a hymn. ’Tis the one my mother was wont to sing when she wished to close my childish eyes in sleep. ’Tis the hymn that has been sung for generations in my fatherland.” “Sit thou on my couch, dear child.” Resting beside her mistress and with the tips of her fingers gently stroking the extended arm of Agrippina, Psyche sang a sweet melody. It was a song that had been nourished on the sacred mountain heights of Greece and had been watered from the immortal fountains of maternal love. Borne on the soft rhythm of the tune, the words appeared like flashes of calm light on a river of melody. “’Tis a peaceful song, my child,” said Agrippina, as Psyche’s voice died away in a whisper. “Ah, my lady, my father taught us that the music and poetry of Greece always touch the soul. He also taught us that life is a continuous song. There are melodies of solitude, of submission, of purification, of passion, of desolation, and of despairing grief. Some of the music is discordant to the ear of youth. ’Tis not until we are aged that we understand the true melody.” “Ay, in Rome ’tis said that youth sees not that which he has to gain. The old man dreams of that which he has lost,” said Agrippina. “Would that we had a copy of Plato, dear lady,” said Psyche, dreamily. “Then could I read to thee soothing truths for thy soul. But I weary thee,” she said, as she arose. “May sleep breathe on thine eyes sweet forgetfulness!” “The gods watch over thee, my child!” responded Agrippina.