Homer Hollopeter had written that in her album at a time when she and Pindar were--oh, no! not engaged, certainly not; only very good friends. Homer, she was aware, had regarded her as a sister, had wished--but she never laid it up against Mary; no, indeed! Who could wonder at any one's falling in love with Mary? And now, after all the years, Pindar had come back; still an elegant man, Miss Wax thought, though nervous, to be sure, sadly nervous. "But perhaps it is his emotions," she said. "No doubt he feels it, coming back after thirty years, and all so changed." And he had pressed her hand, and murmured, "Ye gods!" which was almost profane, Miss Bethia feared,--yet not quite, she hoped; and had asked her to represent Minerva, goddess of wisdom, in the Festival Procession. He was coming this very evening for her answer; what should it be? Miss Bethia glanced again at the long mirror. The angular, yet not ungraceful, figure, the long, oval face with its delicate features and arched eyebrows, the glossy bands of hair, still jet-black,--the whole reflection was familiar, friendly, not--Miss Wax modestly hoped--not wholly unpleasing. She tried to imagine the figure clad in flowing draperies; there was a rose-colored slip under the spare room spread; sateen always draped prettily; pink was her color, and she could not somehow feel that sheets would be quite--quite what she would wish to be seen in. And--on her head, now! Would a helmet be necessary? There was not such an article in the village, but she presumed with silver paper--and yet, a wreath would be so much more becoming; the feather-work roses, for example! She took them from under their round glass case, and laid them against her hair, then put them back with a sigh. The contrast certainly used to be thought becoming, but somehow--and after all was it suitable? What would Phoebe and Vesta Blyth--what would Mrs. Tree have said? With the thought, a vision rose before Miss Wax's eyes: a little figure seated in a high-backed chair, leaning on an ebony crutch-stick; black eyes gleaming with merriment, lips curving in a shrewd yet kindly smile-- Miss Wax glanced at the trophy of silver coffee-spoons which still adorned the mantelpiece; sighed again, and turned away from the glass. "After all," murmured dear Miss Bethia, and this time she smiled, though it was a rather wan smile; "after all, Minerva was the goddess of wisdom!" CHAPTER XIII. THE SORROWS OF MR. PINDAR