"Go and watch for the sails. If you see ours, hurry back and tell Chloris to call me, for I must go to the temple of Cypris." "You?" asked Xanthe, laughing. "I, and you are the last person who should sneer at the errand; nay, you can accompany me." "No! I will cut the roses." These words were uttered in a tone the house-keeper knew well. Whenever Xanthe used it, she insisted upon having her own way, and did what she pleased, while Semestre, who usually never admitted that her hearing was no longer so keen as in former clays, in such cases willingly pleaded her deafness, in order to avoid a retreat. To-day she particularly shrank from irritating the easily-excited girl, and therefore replied: "What did you say? Wouldn't it be better for you to go and cut the roses immediately, my dove? Make haste, for the vessel for which you are to watch bears your happiness. How beautiful the ornaments Leonax is bringing will look! We have never yet seen the like, I imagine. The people in Messina haven't forgotten poor me either, for I heard whispers about a robe such as matrons wear. It is--it might be--well, we shall see." Tittering, and almost embarrassed, she fixed her eyes upon the ground, reminded Xanthe once more to have her called as soon as the ship from Messina appeared, and then, leaning on her myrtle-staff, tottered up the path leading to the temple of the goddess. Xanthe did not go directly down to the sea, but approached her uncle's house to seek Phaon with her eyes. As she could not see him, either in the stables, or the walk lined with fig-trees trained upon espaliers beside the house, she turned quickly away, repressing out of pride her desire to call him. On her way to the sea she met her uncle's high-shouldered slave. Xanthe stopped and questioned him. Semestre had told no lie. Phaon had not yet returned from a nocturnal excursion, and for several days had not reached home until just before sunrise. No, he was not the man to offer support to her sick father. He was looking for a wealthy heiress, and forgot his relatives for the sake of dissolute young men and worthless wenches. This thought hurt her sorely, so sorely that she wanted to weep as she had done by the spring. But she forced back her tears; not one wet her cheeks, yet it seemed as if her poor heart had obtained eyes to shed them. The little knife in her hand reminded her of her task of cutting roses, and watching for the ship which was to bring her uncle's son from Messina. If Leonax was what Semestre described him, she would not repel him like the other suitors, whom she had rejected with laughing lips. Yes, she would become his wife, not only for her father's sake, but to punish Phaon.