"It is a touching story," said Bergan. "And it is almost an allegory, too. For 'only speech' is so often the great need of life! All our deepest feeling and best thought are inarticulate. But am I to be indulged with the rest of _this_ story, also?" he added, turning again to the statue. "I will give it you in brief," replied Astra, "by way of whetting your appetite for the richer savors of the poem itself. Having driven his stolen cattle to Alpheus, the infant god selected two fat heifers for sacrifice. And here, it seems to me, is one of the finest touches in the whole poem. After kindling his fire, slaying his heifers, and offering a portion to each of the twelve gods, ----'his mind became aware Of all the joys that in religion are. For the sweet savor of the roasted meat Tempted him, though immortal. Nathless He checked his haughty will and did not eat, Though what it cost him words can scarce express.' Here, you see, is real self-denial and self-conquest,--for the sake of making an acceptable sacrifice,--and their deep after delight." "If the offering had been less ill-gotten," remarked Bergan, somewhat dryly, "I think the 'touch' would have been still finer." "I confess that I had forgotten all about that," said Astra, laughing, "in my admiration of the infant god's mastery over himself. Still, we cannot expect to find the purity of the Gospel standard of life in the heathen mythology; we can but be thankful for the gleams of Divine light here and there irradiating it, since a whole people long lived and died under its sanction. But, at this rate, my story will never end! The baby god next proceeded to remove every trace of his holocaust, working all night 'in the serene moonshine.' Then, at break of day, he betook himself to his natal cavern, crept quickly to his cradle, pulled his 'ambrosial swaddling clothes about him,' and put on a soft semblance of new-born innocence. In due time, Apollo, having discovered the loss of his cattle, and suspecting who was the rogue, came to the cavern, found the 'subtle, swindling baby,' lying 'swathed in his sly wiles,' and taxed him with the theft. At once, the young 'god of lies' shows forth his character. He stoutly denies all knowledge of the mischief; he pathetically declares,-- 'I am but a little newborn thing, Who yet, at least, can think of nothing wrong; My business is to suck and sleep and fling The cradle-clothes about me all day long,-- Or, half-asleep, hear my sweet mother sing,-- And to be washed in water clean and warm, And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm;--'