Atossa’s friendship was a great comfort to her poor wounded heart.  With her she could speak of Bartja as much and as often as she would, and was always certain of a kind and sympathizing listener.  Atossa had loved her vanished brother very dearly.  And even a stranger would have enjoyed hearing Sappho tell of her past happiness.  Her words rose into real eloquence in speaking of those bright days; she seemed like an inspired poetess.  Then she would take her lyre, and with her clear, sweet, plaintive voice sing the love-songs of the elder Sappho, in which all her own deepest feelings were so truly expressed, and fancy herself once more with her lover sitting under the sweet-scented acanthus in the quiet night, and forget the sad reality of her present life.  And when, with a deep sigh, she laid aside the lyre and came back out of this dream-kingdom, the tears were always to be seen in Kassandane’s eyes, though she did not understand the language in which Sappho had been singing, and Atossa would bend down and kiss her forehead.

Thus three long years had passed, during which Sappho had seldom seen her grandmother, for, as the mother of Parmys, she was by the king’s command, forbidden to leave the harem, unless permitted and accompanied either by Kassandane or the eunuchs.

On the present occasion Croesus, who had always loved, and loved her still, like a daughter, had sent for Rhodopis to Sais.  He, as well as Kassandane, understood her wish to take leave of this, her dearest and most faithful friend, before setting out for Persia; besides which Kassandane had a great wish to see one in whose praise she had heard so much.  When Sappho’s tender and sad farewell was over therefore, Rhodopis was summoned to the queen-mother.

A stranger, who saw these two women together, would have thought both were queens; it was impossible to decide which of the two had most right to the title.

Croesus, standing as he did in as close a relation to the one as to the other, undertook the office of interpreter, and the ready intellect of Rhodopis helped him to carry on an uninterrupted flow of conversation.

Rhodopis, by her own peculiar attractions, soon won the heart of Kassandane, and the queen knew no better way of proving this than by offering, in Persian fashion, to grant her some wish.

Rhodopis hesitated a moment; then raising her hands as if in prayer, she cried:  “Leave me my Sappho, the consolation and beauty of my old age.”

Kassandane smiled sadly.  “It is not in my power to grant that wish,” she answered.  “The laws of Persia command, that the children of the Achaemenidae shall be brought up at the king’s gate.  I dare not allow the little Parmys, Cyrus’ only grandchild, to leave me, and, much as Sappho loves you, you know she would not part from her child.  Indeed, she has become so dear to me now, and to my daughter, that though I well understand your wish to have her, I could never allow Sappho to leave us.”