Hera began to sing an old cradle-song that had been sung in her family from generation to generation. It was the same sweet song which, like gentle fingers, had closed the eyelids of Gannon and Psyche in the slumber of childhood. Taking her mother’s hand in hers and smoothing it, Psyche also sang. Alcmaeon softly added his deep bass voice to theirs. On the spirit of the song they were drawn into the land of happy reveries. From songs they changed to hymns. So moved was Alcmaeon that he rose from the couch and seated himself between Hera and Psyche, with an arm thrown about each of them. In the sacredness of the words and music they were supremely happy. Their souls were melted in religious fervor. While they were thus singing, they heard a scratching at the door. The noise sounded like a cat trying to enter. Alcmaeon opened the door, and saw on the threshold a poor humpbacked girl who was trembling and weeping. “What has happened to thee, Lupa?” he asked. When Lupa’s name was spoken, Psyche hastened to the door. So rough and unmannerly were the neighbors of Alcmaeon that they were almost entirely ignored by Alcmaeon and his family. Lupa was the only exception. The poor deformed child of eleven was the youngest of six children. She was cruelly treated by her family, who looked upon her deformity as a crime. Psyche was the only one in the neighborhood who took an interest in the sad, misshapen, but good-natured girl. In reply to Alcmaeon’s question, Lupa said, “They have beaten me.” “Enter and tell us why, O Lupa,” said Psyche, gently. “They gave me a jar of water to carry,” replied the poor child. “It was too heavy. I let it fall. To punish me, they beat me, and put me out of the house for the night.” “Thou canst rest here. Weep no more. Art thou hungry?” asked Psyche. The deformed girl timidly nodded her head. After arranging a couch for her, Psyche brought her some bread, and said: “Eat and sleep in peace, O unhappy Lupa. No one shall hurt thee here.” At noon on the following day Alcmaeon’s house was deserted. Poor Lupa had gone back to her cheerless home; Alcmaeon was at school; and Psyche and Hera had gone to the rehearsal at Pompey’s Theatre. Of all the celebrations that were to be given the people by Nero on his arriving at the manly age, the dancing at Pompey’s Theatre would be the least exciting. The taste of most Romans dwelt on vulgarity, on obscene comedy, and on exciting gladiatorial combat and horse-races. Still, many delighted in watching the evolutions of the dance. Psyche was to portray Niobe,--a sad but beautiful impersonation. As all the dancers knew their different rôles, the rehearsal required little repetition. Hera remained only a short time. Having met Gyges, whom she playfully called Eros, she left Psyche under his watchful eyes. These she thought were better guardians than her own.