“I am tired,” answered Erato, “but it is not the tiredness that wants sleep. And I should like to hear Urania’s story.” She was very pale; dark shadows lay under her burning eyes; her face seemed spiritualised. Her ways and her voice were subdued and gentle now. The brightness and vivacity were gone. Sometimes she would look lovingly up into Euterpe’s eyes, or touch caressingly Cupid’s curly hair. For the most part she lay motionless, and seemed to be looking fixedly at something--some vision unseen by her sisters. But Cupid never ceased to look earnestly at her, with trouble on his pretty, boyish face. And all of them felt the strange nervous tension of those who have watched far into the night; an excited tremor came over them, bringing with it flashing, vivid imaginings. There was a pause, a silence that was like a prayer to the dawning light. Then Terpsichore arose, with no merriment, as of old, upon her face, but a look of eager penitence. And she knelt down by Erato’s side, and whispered--so softly that only Erato might hear it--“Forgive me, Erato, forgive me! I did not love you once as well as I love you now. I was half jealous because you seemed to like Euterpe better than you liked me, and because you were so beautiful. But I do love you now--I love you more than I can say. Oh, forgive me, Erato!” Erato kissed her on the lips, and Terpsichore went back to her place, crying a little, for no particular reason, and hoping that no one noticed it, after the manner of maidens. Suddenly Urania spoke, with a deep thrill in her voice. This was her story:-- * * * * * There was once a man who was very careful. He saluted the sun, spoiled a good floor by making libations, sacrificed freely, and learned by heart what enabled him to remember the distinction between the _dies fastus_ and the _dies nefastus_. In fact, he did all that could be done. And his number in the books was number one hundred and three. Now, at the end of the quarter, Zeus & Co. were going through their books. It was wearying work and dry work. Ganymede was in and out of the office all day with liquors, and Mercury had been run off his legs with messages to the different departments. The clerk was reading out the items in a dreary monotone. “Number one hundred and one. Dead. Cholera.” “That was a capital cholera,” murmured Co., “and did its work well. Go on, clerk.” “Used to live in Eubœa. Killed to spite his sister, because she----” “That’ll do,” said Zeus hurriedly; “I remember that case--a stupid woman, a very stupid woman--but pretty. Next, please.” “Number one hundred and two. Philosopher still living because he wants to die.” “Say ‘usual formula’ when we come to that. It’s no good wasting time. Has number one hundred and two got anything unpleasant the matter with him?” “No, sir.”