Not once, however, did the
thought enter her mind that she was a free being, at liberty to rebel
and decline this marriage so suddenly arranged for her. It was for her
parents to decide what her future should be, and for her to obey.
Early in the morning of the day which they were to pass in the lovely
gardens of Octavia, Virgilia ascended a narrow steep staircase and
went out upon the flat roof. It was like a garden up here, with
trellises and vines. Some late tea-roses were in bloom. The girl broke
off one and placed it in the folds of her gown. She could breathe in
its sweetness.
Over at one end of the roof--or terrace, as it is called--sat the Old
One, making a carpet. Above her head was a gay scarlet and blue
awning, to protect her from the sun, still hot, even in cool October.
The slave looked up and smiled when Virgilia came near, motioning to a
pile of cushions.
"Ever busy, Mother?" said the young girl, examining the work.
The rug was very handsome. It had five borders wrought in dull blues,
white and yellow, covered with conventional designs, and the centre
was exquisite, a white ground on which loose flowers were thrown
negligently, carelessly, without regular form, yet the whole was
perfect.
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