“Poor little Aristonikè, poor little girl,” she said.
The wandering eyes fixed themselves upon her.
“Who?” she whispered.
“I am Theria, daughter of Nikander. Where is your pain, dear child?”
“Not anywhere—all over.”
“Are you hungry?” asked Theria. This thought was so present with herself.
“Aach,” said the little creature, turning with disgust.
The slave who sat at the bedside answered for her.
“She will not eat these many days, Mistress; and she never sleeps, never, after an oracle.”
Theria gave a low-toned order to the slave, who presently brought hot milk. To Theria in her hunger it smelt like nectar itself. Aristonikè at sight of it hid her eyes.