It was no wonder that the simple villagers became superstitious concerning such a singular child. Some remembered that, before he was born, his mother had carried offerings into a consecrated grotto, where stood a statue of Apollo; and that, being overcome by the warmth of the day, she had fallen asleep there. This gave rise to the story that in her dreams she had heard the god playing upon his golden lyre; that the divine sounds had pervaded her whole being, and endowed her child with Apollo’s gift of prophecy. Others declared that the altar in the sacred grotto had for several years been loaded with her devout offerings, and that she had been heard to say the statue sometimes smiled upon her. Such tokens of approbation from celestial beings were by no means deemed incredible; but they implied that the worshipper was a favourite with the deity she served. From this belief it was easy to infer that the extraordinary child, who saw and heard things invisible and inaudible to other mortals, might be a veritable son of Apollo. Some old crones shook their heads mournfully, and said children who received peculiar endowments from the gods generally died young. But the little Hermotimus wandered about with his father’s shepherds, and was gradually invigorated by air and exercise. He no longer fainted at perfumes, or shared his supper with rose-coloured lambs. His mother still noticed a peculiar dreaminess in the expression of his eyes, and when he was alone, she sometimes heard him singing melodies, which came to him from some mysterious source. She kept her thoughts in the privacy of her own heart, but she retained her belief that his remarkable boyhood was the forerunner of something extraordinary in manhood. With his improving health, the gossip of the neighbourhood gradually subsided, and was only occasionally revived by some eccentricities in his manners. The change pleased his father well; for he wanted a son to aid him in the acquisition of wealth, and had no desire to see him become either poet or prophet. He charged his wife never to talk to him about his childish dreams, and he was annoyed by any allusions to her sleep in Apollo’s grotto. Of course, the lad was aware that things had been said of him, which his mother believed, and his father disliked to have mentioned. This mystery made him think more about himself, than he would otherwise have done, and increased his tendency to lonely wanderings and profound reveries. His father did his utmost to allure him to convivial meetings with young people; saying to himself that a sharp shot from Cupid’s bow was the best thing to wake him up thoroughly. But the timid youth scarcely ventured to raise his eyes in the presence of maidens, and appeared to take even less notice of their charms, than he did of flowers and birds, and other beautiful things. His father thought that a mate as unlike himself as possible would be most likely to counteract his peculiar tendencies. He therefore selected