Eudora remained in serious silence for a moment; and then said, "Can you tell me, Philothea, what you meant by saying you once heard the stars sing? Or is that one of those things concerning which you do not love to have me inquire?"
The maiden replied: "As I sat at my grandfather's feet, near the statue of Phœbus in the portico, at early dawn, I heard music, of soft and various sounds, floating in the air; and I thought perchance it was the farewell hymn of the stars, or the harps of the Pleiades, mourning for their lost sister.—I had never spoken of it; but to-night I forgot the presence of all save Plato, when I heard him discourse so eloquently of music."
"And were you as unhappy as you expected to be during this visit?" inquired her friend.
"Some portions of the evening I enjoyed exceedingly," replied Philothea. "I could have listened to Plato and Tithonus, until I grew old in their presence. Their souls seem to move in glowing moonlight, as if surrounded by bright beings from a better world."
Eudora looked thoughtfully in her friend's face. "It is strange," she said, "how closely you associate all earthly objects with things divine. I have heard Anaxagoras say that when you were a little child, you chased the fleeting sunshine through the fields, and called it the glittering wings of Phœbus Apollo, as he flew over the verdant earth. And still, dearest Philothea, your heart speaks the same language. Wherever you look, you see the shining of god-like wings. Just so you talked of the moonlight, the other evening. To Hipparete, that solemn radiance would have suggested no thought except that lamp-light was more favourable to the complexion; and Hermippus would merely have rejoiced in it, because it saved him the expense of an attendant and a torch, as he reeled home from his midnight revels. I seldom think of sacred subjects, except when I am listening to you; but they then seem so bright, so golden, so divine, that I marvel they ever appear to me like cold, dim shadows."
"The flowers of the field are unlike, but each has a beauty of its own; and thus it is with human souls," replied Philothea.
For a brief space there was silence. But Eudora, true to the restless vivacity of her character, soon seized her lyre, and carelessly touching the strings, she hummed one of Sappho's ardent songs:
"More happy than the gods is he,
Who soft reclining sits by thee;
His ears thy pleasing talk beguiles,
His eyes thy sweetly dimpled smiles.
This, this, alas! alarmed my breast,
And robbed me of my golden rest."
Philothea interrupted her, by saying, "I should much rather hear something from the pure and tender-hearted Simonides."
But the giddy damsel, instead of heeding her request, abruptly exclaimed, "Did you observe the sandals of Artaphernes sparkle as he walked? How richly Tithonus was dressed! Was it not a magnificent costume?"