Could the change be due to our friendship? As I asked myself the question, my heart leaped with a new hope. I yearned to tell her all that she was to me—all that I hoped we might be to one another in the years to come.
At length I ventured to break in upon her reverie.
“What are you thinking about so earnestly, fair lady?”
She turned quickly with a bright smile and sparkling eyes that looked frankly into mine. “I was wondering,” said she, “if he was jealous of my new friend. But what a baby I am to talk such nonsense!”
She laughed softly and happily with just an adorable hint of shyness.
“Why should he be jealous?” I asked.
“Well, you see, before—we were friends, he had me all to himself. I have never had a man friend before—except my father—and no really intimate friend at all. And I was very lonely in those days, after our troubles had befallen. I am naturally solitary, but still, I am only a girl; I am not a philosopher. So when I felt very lonely, I used to come here and look at Artemidorus and make believe that he knew all the sadness of my life and sympathized with me. It was very silly, I know, but yet, somehow it was a real comfort to me.”
“It was not silly of you at all. He must have been a good man, a gentle, sweet-faced man who had won the love of those who knew him, as this beautiful memorial tells; and it was wise and good of you to sweeten the bitterness of your life with the fragrance of this human love that blossoms in the dust after the lapse of centuries. No, you were not silly, and Artemidorus is not jealous of your new friend.”
“Are you sure?” She still smiled as she asked the question, but her glance was soft—almost tender—and there was a note of whimsical anxiety in her voice.
“Quite sure. I give you my confident assurance.”
She laughed gaily. “Then,” said she, “I am satisfied, for I am sure you know. But here is a mighty telepathist who can read the thoughts even of a mummy. A most formidable companion. But tell me how you know.”
“I know because it is he who gave you to me to be my friend. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, I remember,” she answered softly. “It was when you were so sympathetic with my foolish whim that I felt we were really friends.”
“And I, when you confided your pretty fancy to me, thanked you for the gift of your friendship, and treasured it, and do still treasure it, above everything on earth.”
She looked at me quickly with a sort of nervousness in her manner, and cast down her eyes. Then, after a few moments’ almost embarrassed silence, as if to bring back our talk to a less emotional plane, she said:
“Do you notice the curious way in which this memorial divides itself up into two parts?”
“How do you mean?” I asked a little disconcerted by the sudden descent.
“I mean that there is a part of it that is purely decorative and a part that is expressive or emotional. You notice that the general design and scheme of decoration, although really Greek in feeling, follows rigidly the Egyptian conventions. But the portrait is entirely in the Greek manner, and when they came to that pathetic farewell, it had to be spoken in their own tongue, written in their own familiar characters.”
“Yes. I have noticed that and admired the taste with which they have kept the inscription so inconspicuous as not to clash with the decoration. An obtrusive inscription in Greek characters would have spoiled the consistency of the whole scheme.”
“Yes, it would.” She assented absently as if she were thinking of something else, and once more gazed thoughtfully at the mummy. I watched her with deep content: noted the lovely contour of her cheek, the soft masses of hair that strayed away so gracefully from her brow, and thought her the most wonderful creature that had ever trod the earth. Suddenly she looked at me reflectively.
“I wonder,” she said, “what made me tell you about Artemidorus. It was a rather silly, childish sort of make-believe, and I wouldn’t have told anyone else for the world; not even my father. How did I know that you would sympathize and understand?”
She asked the question in all simplicity with her serious gray eyes looking inquiringly into mine. And the answer came to me in a flash, with the beating of my own heart.
“I will tell you how you know, Ruth,” I whispered passionately. “It was because I loved you more than anyone else in the world has ever loved you, and you felt my love in your heart and called it sympathy.”
I stopped short, for she had blushed scarlet and then turned deathly pale. And now she looked at me wildly, almost with terror.
“Have I shocked you, Ruth dearest?” I exclaimed penitently, “have I spoken too soon? If I have, forgive me. But I had to tell you. I have been eating my heart out for love of you for I don’t know how long. I think I have loved you from the first day we met. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken yet, but, Ruth dear, if you only knew what a sweet girl you are, you wouldn’t blame me.”
“I don’t blame you,” she said, almost in a whisper; “I blame myself. I have been a bad friend to you, who have been so loyal and loving to me. I ought not to have let this happen. For it can’t be, Paul; I can’t say what you want me to say. We can never be anything more to one another than friends.”
A cold hand seemed to grasp my heart—a horrible fear that I had lost all that I cared for—all that made life desirable.
“Why can’t we?” I asked. “Do you mean
