Sahira, the slave, walked like a
queen and was so proud that she would not mingle with the other
servants. Her father, Alyrus, chief of hundreds in the desert-land of
his own country, was but a door-keeper in the house of Aurelius
Lucanus, and he was, very bitter in spirit.
"Your mother has need of you," said Sahira, in her velvet voice. "I
think that the Lady Claudia is very ill."
"I will come at once."
The Lady Claudia was indeed very ill and continued so for several
weeks. The summer waxed and waned. The cool winds of September blew
strongly from the West and the calla lilies and jessamine had long
since withered in the garden before Claudia was able once again to sit
in the chair under the late tea-rose vines and listen to the rippling
water of the fountain.
The old, proud Claudia seemed to have disappeared and in her place was
a feeble woman, with trembling hands, whose glance followed every move
her daughter made, who seemed to be happy only when Virgilia was near.
She ignored the ministrations of the slave Sahira, whose heart warmed
to only one person except her father, and that was her beautiful
mistress.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27