a share—and it would have been so easy to have written "and to thine, peace." For the first time in her life she felt the smart of a jealous sting.
"The eighth day," said Simonides, "the eighth day; and this, Esther, this is the—"
"The ninth," she replied.
"Ah, then, they may be in Bethany now."
"And possibly we may see him to-night," she added, pleased into momentary forgetfulness.
"It may be, it may be! To-morrow is the Feast of Unleavened Bread, and he may wish to celebrate it; so may the Nazarene; and we may see him we may see both of them, Esther."
At this point the servant appeared with the wine and water. Esther helped her father, and in the midst of the service Iras came upon the roof.
To the Jewess the Egyptian never appeared so very, very beautiful as at that moment. Her gauzy garments fluttered about her like a little cloud of mist; her forehead, neck, and arms glittered with the massive jewelry so affected by her people. Her countenance was suffused with pleasure.
She moved with buoyant steps, and self-conscious, though without affectation. Esther at the sight shrank within herself, and nestled closer to her father.
"Peace to you, Simonides, and to the pretty Esther peace," said Iras, inclining her head to the latter. "You remind me, good master—if I may say it without offence—you remind me of the priests in Persia who climb their temples at the decline of day to send prayers after the departing sun. Is there anything in the worship you do not know, let me call my father. He is Magian-bred."
"Fair Egyptian," the merchant replied, nodding with grave politeness, "your father is a good man who would not be offended if he knew I told you his Persian lore is the least part of his wisdom."
Iras’s lip curled slightly.
"To speak like a philosopher, as you invite me," she said, "the least part always implies a greater. Let me ask what you esteem the greater part of the rare quality you are pleased to attribute to him."
