“There—­take it!” replied Philippus; and again he walked up and down the room, while Horapollo took the letter.  Both faces of the tablets were covered with irregular, up-and-down lines of writing to the following effect: 

     “Rufinus, in view of death, to his beloved Philippus: 

“One shivering fit after another comes over me; I shall certainly die to-day.  I must make haste.  Writing is difficult.  If only I can say what is most pressing.—­First:  Joanna and the poor child.  Be everything you can be to them.  Protect them as their guardian, Kyrios, and friend.  They have enough to live on and something still to spare for others.  My brother Leonax manages the property, and he is honest.  Joanna knows all about it.—­Tell her and the poor child that I send them ten thousand blessings—­and to Joanna endless thanks for all her goodness.—­And to you, my friend:  heed the old man’s words.  Rid your heart of Paula.  She is not for you:  you know, young Orion.  But as to yourself:  Those who were born in high places rarely suit us, who have dragged ourselves up from below to a better position.  Be her friend; that she deserves—­but let that be all.  Do not live alone, a wife brings all that is best into a man’s life; it is she who weaves sweet dreams into his dull sleep.  You know nothing of all this as yet; and your worthy old friend—­to whom my greetings—­has held aloof from it all his life....

“For your private eye:  it is a dying man who speaks thus.  You must know that my poor child, our Pul, regards you as the most perfect of men and esteems you above all others.  You know her and Joanna.  Bear witness to your friend that no evil word ever passed the lips of either of them.  Far be it from me to advise you, who bear the image of another woman in your heart,—­to say:  marry the child, she is the wife for you.  But this much to you both—­Father and son—­I do advise you to live with the mother and daughter as true and friendly house-mates.  You will none of you repent doing so.  This is a dying man’s word.  I can write no more.  You are the women’s guardian, Philip, a faithful one I know.  A common aim makes men grow alike.  You and I, for many a year.—­Take good care of them for me; I entreat you—­good care.”

The last words were separated and written all astray; the old man could hardly make them out.  He now sat looking, as Phillipus had done before, sorely puzzled and undecided over this strange document.

“Well?” asked the leech at last.

“Aye-well?” repeated the other with a shrug.  Then both again were silent; till Horapollo rose, and taking his staff, also paced the room while he murmured, half to himself and half to his younger friend “They are two quiet, reasonable women.  There are not many of that sort, I fancy.  How the little one helped me up from the low seat in the garden!” It was a reminiscence that made him chuckle to himself; he stopped Philippus, who was pacing at his side, by lightly patting his arm, exclaiming with unwonted vivacity:  “A man should be ready to try everything—­the care of women even, before he steps into the grave.  And is it a fact that neither of them is a scold or a chatter-box?”