She was then but thirteen. In all that it beseems a woman
to know, she is no less skilled. Yonder lies her cithern; she learnt
to touch it, I scarce know how, out of mere desire to soothe my
melancholy, and I suspect--though she will not avow it--that the
music she plays is often her own. In sickness she has tended me with
skill as rare as her gentleness; her touch on the hot forehead is
like that of a flower plucked before sunrise. Hearing me speak thus
of her, what think you, O Basil, must be my trust in the man to whom
I would give her for wife?'
'Can you doubt my love, O Aurelia?' cried the listener, clasping his
hands before him.
'Your love? No. But your prudence, is that as little beyond doubt?'
'I have thought long and well,' said Basil.
Aurelia regarded him steadily.
'You spoke with her in the garden just now. Did she reply?'
'But few words. She asked me if I knew her origin, and blushed as
she spoke.'
'It is her wish that I should tell you; and I will.'
Scarce had Aurelia begun her narrative, when Basil perceived that
his own conjecture, and that of Marcian, had hit the truth.
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