280 DIPHILUS.

had come up unobserved. His name was Plesi-
dippus, and he lived at Cyrene.

“Good morning, father,” said the stranger respect-
fully. — “ Father!” muttered the old man to himself.
It was a common mode of address from the young
to their elders, but poor Demones could never hear
it without emotion. It reminded him of what had
been a far greater trouble than the loss of his for-
tune. He had been robbed years before of his only
child, a sweet little girl of three years or so. She
had wandered out alone one morning, while her maid
was busy with some work, and had never been heard
of again.

“Good morning, my son,” he replied, recovering
himself. “What can I do for you?”

Plesidippus. “Have you seen a slave dealer, an
old rascal with curly white hair?”

Demones. “Old rascals I have seen in plenty, or
else I should not be here.”

Ples. “He had two girls with him, and he was
going to sacrifice in the temple of Aphrodité here.
It was to have been to-day, or possibly it was yes-
terday, though I think not.”

Dem. “There has been no one here on that
errand, I am sure. The fact is, that no one comes
to sacrifice without my knowing it. They are always
wanting water, or fire, or dishes, or knives, or some-
thing. My things belong much more to the goddess
than to me. No, my young friend, you may be