With a scream Sappho dropped her torch. Only a few of the concourse had seen the trick, and from these came a shout of protest. Without a sound the dark girl sprang wildly onward. But Sappho stooped, lifted her torch and waved it. It still flamed. Then, with a sort of fury, she began running. Like blown thistledown she sped after her opponent. Her feet scarcely touched the ground, her slight garment clung to her, showing the lithe slimness of her girlish form. On, on she went. Never had girl run so fast, so finely, in all the history of the race. The great crowd rose to her, and a mighty tumult broke out. She caught up with the dark girl, who faltered slightly, hearing that shout in which cries of rage mingled, calling her own name, Chloë, with shouts of shame, shame. Sappho passed her without a glance, and the next instant sank into the arms of her father, waiting beyond the finish line. Then indeed the crowd went wild. Her father led her out by the hand before the officials, seated splendidly in a group at the head of the arena. Panting, trembling, her face pale, she stood, lifting her eyes to those bent toward her, while the vast circle poured out a mighty roar of “Sappho, Sappho, hail to young Sappho!” Flowers rained down on her, and then, amid a sudden silence, one of the judges stepped down and laid a wreath on her tossed hair. When she came back to her young friends the colour had returned to her cheeks. Her mother laid her hands on her head: “Sappho, my daughter, I no longer regret that I did not bear a son,” she whispered. “And your arm, poor child?” “Nothing,” answered Sappho, lifting it to show the scarlet scar of the heat. “What is pain that it should matter, if only one triumphs!” Ruth and Rose clasped her hands in theirs, and gasped out their joy and excitement as best they might. “You are the wonderfullest, the loveliest ...” they asserted. Sappho smiled: “No, I’m not,” she said. “But I’m the happiest ...” “Come, my dears,” said a brisk, decided voice, while slender hands caught Rose’s right and Ruth’s left. “Time to be getting home ...” The arena grew dim, the shouting died, Sappho wavered and vanished. The two girls shut their eyes instinctively. Once more came that sudden sense of falling.... “Why, look, there are the torches,” cried Ruth, clutching at her sister. But it was the flickering flame of the fire in the living room, for there were Rose and Ruth, sitting on the big settee among the pillows, while the log fell apart with a crash and an up-burst of flame. “Why, we’re home again,” said Rose, slowly. “And the fairy, is she here?” But if she were she did not answer, and since she couldn’t be seen, there was nothing to be done but to suppose she had gone. CHAPTER III AN ADVENTURE WITH LITTLE WOMEN