“We will buy them all, frail little flower. What is thy name?” “Rosilla,” replied the child, bashfully. “Take thy basket. Here is a coin. Art thou content, O Rosilla?” asked Sabinus. The child, surprised and contented, bashfully withdrew without making any reply. “What pretty things flowers are!” added Sabinus. “Here are blue iris and violets for thee, O Merope. And for thee, O Elea, are gorgeous roses. Here is one like a kissing mouth. Ah, Merope, with these violets in thy fair hair thou art a Flora.” “If thy Merope is a Flora, my Elea is the Greek Chloris,” added Sulpicius. “Dost thou mean the Greek goddess of flowers or the daughter of Niobe, O Sulpicius?” asked Elea. “Whichever is the prettier, my fragrant flower. But why?” he asked. “Verily, I am Chloris, Niobe’s daughter, in the dance to be given at Pompey’s Theatre.” “Who is the Niobe in the dance?” “The Greek, Psyche. Hast thou seen her?” “Ay, a beautiful girl.” “A wonderful dancer,” added Merope. “She dances not, O Merope. So light is she that she seems to float in the air,” said Elea. “Is she not young for a Niobe?” asked Sabinus. “Ay, her face is like that of a celestial Hora; but she carries years in the dignity of her pose.” “’Tis her last dance.” “Meanest thou that she leaves Rome?” “Nay, she becomes the bride of Gyges.” “The young charioteer?” asked Sulpicius. “Ay, and a handsome man,” replied Elea. “Dost thou dance also with her, O Merope?” asked Sulpicius. “Ay, I am Lydia. I die soon in the dance.” “Dost thou die also, O Elea?” asked Sabinus, laughing. “Nay, Chloris was the only daughter of Niobe that was saved,” replied Elea. “But look ye, Narcissus droops under the weight of his poetic mind,” said Sulpicius. “Come! A cup of wine, Narcissus. Words flow more freely from lips wet by the juice of the grape.” Narcissus eagerly swallowed his wine. He then blew on his reeds plaintive notes like those with which shepherds collect their flocks. The garden was wrapped in silence. The clear air was motionless. The sun was near the western hills, and the light that fell on the happy revellers was such as filters through soft olive-trees. The piping of the reeds seemed to produce a pastoral environment. Narcissus sang: “On the side of Ida’s classic mount a shepherd tends his flock. With graceful form, quick in motion, eyes bright as stars, face like Apollo’s! O happy shepherd!” Again Narcissus played the shepherds’ call. Suddenly he altered the theme, giving more melody to his song and making it a softer and gentler phrase than the shepherds’ air. He sang: “By the bank of a crystal brook near by, a maiden sang a song. With eyes of blue like bits of sky, with face as fresh as lovely dawn, O happy maid!”