There was silence for a few moments. Erato, stretched lazily on the floor, looking up at the dim-lit roof of the cloud-chamber, let her pretty lips curve half-way to a smile, when she checked herself suddenly; she never could keep her thoughts still for a moment,--they flew from poor Clio’s story to a story of her own. She was thinking now of a hot summer night in Sicily, and of one who walked across the low hills, with flocks pattering softly after him, and seen but indistinctly in those fragrant moments when the evening touches the darkness. She thought of him. As he went, he piped a melody--a simple strain enough, but with one of those quaint refrains that nestle down in the memory of a man. Ah--and afterwards! “Clio,” she said, drawing a long breath, “I have a story, sweet and fit for a summer night, a story of the joyousness, and rapture, and sorrow of Love. Will you hear it?” “Ah, yes, Clio!” said Terpsichore. “Erato once told me a story, and it was so lovely and dreamy. It had the temper of soft valse music. One’s heart throbbed to it: one lived to it, as it were. Let us hear Erato’s story.” “Not just yet, I think,” answered Clio. “We must not forget that Granta lies beneath us. Far down below our feet, one sits--a young man with red hair--amid many dictionaries. He is turning into Latin elegiacs those beautiful lines--I quote from memory-- His head was bare, his matted hair Was shaved to keep him cool. Already he has seven feet in his hexameter, and knows it not, because the gods do not like him. If we let thoughts of love stray forth from our cloud-chamber, and flutter down into that young man’s red head, I fear that he would never get the pentameter at all. No, Erato, to these young men love is a disturbing influence; they avoid the maidens, and care only for a surer knowledge of Greek accentuation. When they have all gone to bed, you shall tell your story; great personages in history have fallen in love; I myself have no prejudice against it. But you may choose which of us shall tell the next story.” Erato sighed, and glanced round the room. When her eyes fell on Euterpe her face brightened. And truly Euterpe was good to see: she had a wonderful grace of body, and fresh gladness in her eyes; yet there was a depth in the look of her; it was the look of one not easily understood, of one who could feel a sorrow. “I choose Euterpe, because she is so beautiful.” A little flush came into Euterpe’s cheeks; her lips parted, showing her small white teeth. She was ever shy and quiet. “I would sooner sing to you,” she said. “I am more used to singing.” “No, dear, it must be a story,” said Clio firmly. “And perhaps a song will come into it,” added Erato sweetly. Then Euterpe told this story. And all the time that she was telling it Erato sat gazing upward into Euterpe’s eyes. * * * * *