"Do you believe he will come?" Esther asked.
"Unless he has taken to the sea or the desert, and is yet following on, he will come."
Simonides spoke with quiet confidence.
"He may write," she said.
"Not so, Esther. He would have despatched a letter when he found he could not return, and told me so; because I have not received such a letter, I know he can come, and will."
"I hope so," she said, very softly.
Something in the utterance attracted his attention; it might have been the tone, it might have been the wish. The smallest bird cannot light upon the greatest tree with out sending a shock to its most distant fibre; every mind is at times no less sensitive to the most trifling words.
"You wish him to come, Esther?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, lifting her eyes to his.
"Why?. Can you tell me?" he persisted.
"Because"—she hesitated, then began again—"because the young man is—" The stop was full.
"Our master. Is that the word?"
"Yes."
"And you still think I should not suffer him to go away without telling him to come, if he chooses, and take us—and all we have—all, Esther—the goods, the shekels, the ships, the slaves, and the mighty credit, which is a mantle of cloth of gold and finest silver spun for me by the greatest of the angels of men—Success."
She made no answer.
"Does that move you nothing? No?" he said, with the slightest taint of bitterness. "Well, well, I have found, Esther, the worst reality is never unendurable when it comes out from behind the clouds through which we at first see it darkly—never—not even the rack. I suppose it will be so with death. And by that philosophy the slavery to which we are going must afterwhile become sweet. It pleases me even now to think what a favored man our master is. The fortune cost him nothing not—an anxiety, not a drop of sweat, not so much as a thought; it attaches to him undreamed of, and in his youth. And, Esther, let me
