Читать книгу Fabiola; Or, The Church of the Catacombs онлайн

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“Any in my power.”

“Then it is, that you will allow me to purchase Syra—I think that is her name. You will not like to see her about you.”

“You are mistaken, Agnes. I will master pride for once, and own, that I shall now esteem her, perhaps almost admire her. It is a new feeling in me towards one in her station.”

“But I think, Fabiola, I could make her happier than she is.”

“No doubt, dear Agnes; you have the power of making every body happy about you. I never saw such a household as yours. You seem to carry out in practice that strange philosophy which Syra alluded to, in which there is no distinction of freeman and slave. Every body in your house is always smiling, and cheerfully anxious to discharge his duty. And there seems to be no one who thinks of commanding. Come, tell me your secret.” (Agnes smiled.) “I suspect, you little magician, that in that mysterious chamber, which you will never open for me, you keep your charms and potions by which you make every body and every thing love you. If you were a Christian, and were exposed in the amphitheatre, I am sure the very leopards would crouch and nestle at your feet. But why do you look so serious, child? You know I am only joking.”