“Fatherland! Fatherland!” he continues, “we shall see the quiet fields of Greece in the pacific radiance of her glorious religion. We shall see our noble temples. We shall encircle with our arms the pure columns,--beautiful sisters of holy hymns. We shall feel in our veins the pulsations of that inspiration which moved the God of Poetry to sing the immortal Iliad. In our Fatherland, where tremble every mountain, every river, every fountain, every grove, every laurel and myrtle, all trembling like a single leaf, all twinkling like a single star, with the fervor of infinite Goodness, infinite Beauty, and infinite Truth,--there, my beloved ones, we shall breathe in the aroma of future incense! We shall feel the Titanic throb of our past greatness! We shall see with prophetic eyes the final triumph of Greek thought over the world!” From out the darkness, while Alcmaeon spoke these last words, the enraptured listeners hear a clear soprano voice singing a cradle-song. It seems like a voice from another world. It is Aldo, who, moved by his happy dreams, half awake, sings the song that is dearest to him. Alcmaeon starts, and when the song dies away, he asks Gyges, “Where did Aldo learn that song?” “I know not, O father.” “’Tis a song that is sung only by those who come from Corinth.” Alcmaeon rises and goes towards Aldo’s couch. He gently touches him and asks, “Where didst thou learn that song?” The lad awakes and drowsily asks, “What--what song?” “Wert thou asleep?” “Ay. Did I sing in my sleep?” “Ay, thou didst,” replies Alcmaeon; “and ’twas a song that only we who come from Corinth sing.” “I know only one song,” says Aldo, “and if I sang, ’twas the one my parents taught me.” “Who were thy parents, my lad?” “They were Greeks, slaves.” “What was thy father’s name, Aldo?” “Gannon.” “Of a truth?” exclaims Alcmaeon, greatly surprised. “Ay; my name was Alcmaeon, but my Roman master called me Aldo.” “Verily do I believe that thou art one of the family of Alcmaeons. Where is thy bulla?” Nana interrupts the conversation with the announcement that the evening meal is served. “Bring me a light, my Nana. Come hither, all!” commands Alcmaeon. When a light is handed him, he reads on the little copper bulla that hangs on a string around Aldo’s neck the words, in Greek, “a child of the Alcmaeons.” “Ah, my lad, thou art a true descendant of the Alcmaeons!” cries the happy schoolmaster. “Here, here is the kiss of relationship. Behold, Hera, Psyche, and Gyges, we have found a hero in our family.” “Am I truly thy kinsman?” asks the wondering lad. “Ah, Aldo, thou art no longer a slave,” cries Gyges. “Thou art free!” “And I will adopt thee as my son,” exclaims Alcmaeon, with tender emotion. * * * * *