"It is almost finished, my child, and when it is done, it shall be for
thee, to adorn thy home."
"For me?"
"My wedding gift to thee. On the day that thou wast born, I began it,
and all through these seventeen years I have worked at it, thinking
that on the day when thou shouldst go away to thy husband, the rug
would go with thy household goods to remind thee of the aged woman
whose gnarled and withered hands wrought it for thee."
"I shall ever hold it precious."
Virgilia sank down on the cushions, listlessly. Far away she could see
the blue lines of mountains, bordering the fields where Lucius the
Water-Carrier lived, where were the marvellous tombs of the great on
the Appian Way; where stately homes bordered the fashionable Ostian
Way, and where were the Catacombs where the Christians buried their
dead and gathered for worship.
She looked with some curiosity at the placid, gentle face of the old
woman. That night, when she had burst in upon the betrothal feast with
her dire prophecies, she had been transformed, a creature of whom they
were afraid.
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