"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.
"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. Had she been conscious of what she said then? Virgilia thought not.
"Mother," she said, "thy many years of life have brought to thee wisdom. Should one tell everything to one's husband? Even when it may be dangerous?"
The Old One held a yellow thread suspended from her ivory hook and looked keenly at Virgilia.