“From the groves of the academy, I see,” said the sage, advancing and laying his hand on the youth’s shoulder.
Theon looked up with a modest blush, and encouraged by the sweet aspect of the sage, replied, “No; from the Stoic portico.”
“Ah! I had not thought Zeno could send forth such a dreamer. You are in a good school,” he continued, observing the youth confused by this remark, “a school of real virtue; and, if I read faces well, as I think I do, I see a pupil that will not disgrace its doctrines.”
Theon’s spirit returned; the stranger had that look, and voice, and manner, which instantly give security to the timid, and draw love from the feeling heart. “If you be man, you exert more than human influence over the souls of your fellows. I have seen you but one moment, and that moment has laid me at your feet.”
“Not quite so low, I hope,” returned the sage with a smile; “I had always rather be the companion than the master.”
“Either, both,” said the eager youth, and seizing the half-extended hand of the sage, pressed it respectfully to his lips.
“You are an enthusiast, I see. Beware, my young friend! such as you must be the best or the worst of men.”
“Then, had I you for a guide, I should be the best.”
“What! do you a stoic ask a guide?”
“I, a stoic! Oh! would I were! I yet stand but on the threshhold of the temple.”