Without envy, in hope only one day to share, to win them by kindness,
he gazes on the motley garden-plots, the soft bedding, the showy
toys, the delicate keep of the children of Phaedra, who turn
curiously to their half-brother, venture to touch his long strange
gown of homespun grey, like the soft coat of some wild creature who
might let one stroke it. Close to their dainty existence for a
while, he regards it as from afar; looks forward all day to the
lights, the prattle, the laughter, the white [174] bread, like sweet
cake to him, of their ordinary evening meal; returns again and again,
in spite of himself, to watch, to admire, feeling a power within him
to merit the like; finds his way back at last, still light of heart,
to his own poor fare, able to do without what he would enjoy so much.
As, grateful for his scanty part in things--for the make-believe of a
feast in the little white loaves she too has managed to come by,
sipping the thin white wine, he touches her dearly, the mother is
shocked with a sense of something unearthly in his contentment, while
he comes and goes, singing now more abundantly than ever a new
canticle to her divine rival.
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