One of the two handmaidens hemmed a towel, and the other appeared to be making a ruffle, for her Sunday’s wear, out of a little bit of embroidered muslin which Zenobia had probably given her.

It was curious to observe how trustingly, and yet how timidly, our poor Priscilla betook herself into the shadow of Zenobia’s protection. She sat beside her on a stool, looking up every now and then with an expression of humble delight at her new friend’s beauty. A brilliant woman is often an object of the devoted admiration — it might almost be termed worship, or idolatry — of some young girl, who perhaps beholds the cynosure only at an awful distance, and has as little hope of personal intercourse as of climbing among the stars of heaven.

We men are too gross to