Crispus marveled at Vashti’s care for him, marveled still more as the days went by without any slackening of her ministrations. An ideal nurse, she seemed bent on doing everything within her power to render pleasant his enforced inactivity. Tactful to a nicety, she was never in the way and never out of it. Responsive to the passing whims of her patient--and what patient is not whimsical at times?--she could recognize when he wished for solitude, and would leave him to himself; if he were desirous of conversation, she was ever ready to meet his desire. On learning that he had a great liking for Herodotus, she drew that charming, old-world historian from her little library, and read to him day by day, seldom failing to illumine the subject with interesting comments of her own; and once, at eventide, she took her harp and sang in a voice so sweet that Crispus begged for a repetition of the pleasure; and, ever after that, as the shades of twilight fell, she would sing to him from that cycle of psalms which, though he knew it not, are destined to be sung till the end of time. It puzzled Crispus that Vashti should so interest herself in him. Was this interest the expression merely of her gratitude, for the service he had rendered her in the synagogue, or was it the expression of a more tender sentiment? Was Vashti seeking to win his love? The thought troubled him. It was hard to be compelled to crush this rising desire on her part--that is, supposing it existed--for however pure, attractive, and beautiful Vashti might be, she was not for him; he must remain faithful to the unknown Athenaïs, not only because it was a point of honor for a Cestius to keep faith, but also because his ambition could not easily forego the kingdom dependent upon his mysterious marriage. Vashti, it seemed, had a little brother, a child of eighteen months. One morning she brought him with some diffidence into the chamber, and, finding that Crispus did not object to his presence, but, on the contrary, derived considerable amusement from his infantine attempts at talking, she brought him every day; and though Vashti was “as learned as Minerva”--Crispus’ own expression--she proved herself in other respects a veritable tom-boy, playing at “hide and seek,” and romping round the room till the child fairly shrieked with delight. It was a new feature in her character, and one that pleased Crispus. Tired at last of play the little fellow clambered upon his sister’s knee, and nestled against her breast. Vashti’s remark that he was called Arad led to a talk upon personal names and their meanings; and, of course, Crispus soon fastened his attention upon her own name. “Vashti is a Persian word said to mean beautiful,” she replied with a little blush. “You could not change it for one more appropriate,” remarked Crispus, “unless it were----” He paused. A wild suspicion had suddenly taken possession of him, a suspicion that set his pulses thrilling with a delicious pleasure.