Longer, perhaps, had been the enamoured soliloquy of Glaucus, but at that moment a shadow darkened the threshold of the chamber, and a young female, still half a child in years, broke upon his solitude. She was dressed simply in a white tunic, which reached from the neck to the ankles; under her arm she bore a basket of flowers, and in the other hand she held a bronze water-vase; her features were more formed than exactly became her years, yet they were soft and feminine in their outline, and without being beautiful in themselves, they were almost made so by their beauty of expression; there was something ineffably gentle, and you would say patient, in her aspect. A look of resigned sorrow, of tranquil endurance, had banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips; something timid and cautious in her step--something wandering in her eyes, led you to suspect the affliction which she had suffered from her birth--she was blind; but in the orbs themselves there was no visible defect--their melancholy and subdued light was clear, cloudless, and serene. 'They tell me that Glaucus is here,' said she; 'may I come in?' 'Ah, my Nydia,' said the Greek, 'is that you I knew you would not neglect my invitation.' 'Glaucus did but justice to himself,' answered Nydia, with a blush; 'for he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.' 'Who could be otherwise?' said Glaucus, tenderly, and in the voice of a compassionate brother. Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without replying to his remark. 'You have but lately returned?' 'This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at Pompeii.' 'And you are well? Ah, I need not ask--for who that sees the earth, which they tell me is so beautiful, can be ill?' 'I am well. And you, Nydia--how you have grown! Next year you will be thinking what answer to make your lovers.' A second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this time she frowned as she blushed. 'I have brought you some flowers,' said she, without replying to a remark that she seemed to resent; and feeling about the room till she found the table that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket upon it: 'they are poor, but they are fresh-gathered.' 'They might come from Flora herself,' said he, kindly; 'and I renew again my vow to the Graces, that I will wear no other garlands while thy hands can weave me such as these.' 'And how find you the flowers in your viridarium?--are they thriving?' 'Wonderfully so--the Lares themselves must have tended them.' 'Ah, now you give me pleasure; for I came, as often as I could steal the leisure, to water and tend them in your absence.' 'How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia?' said the Greek. 'Glaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so watchful over his favorites at Pompeii.'