“Ay, my love.” Then, after a long silence, he added with an air of sad conviction, “Some one whom we love is dead.” “Say not so, O lover,” cried Psyche. “This cannot mean anything to us. But look! Even the sun has left us.” “Evening is drawing near,” he sadly responded. “Come, let us go home,” said Psyche, tearfully. Silently they took a last look at their new home, said farewell to Nana, went out into the street, and proceeded along the Via Appia. When they reached the street that led to Psyche’s home, they concluded to walk farther and view the Campagna and the hills beyond, lit up by the setting sun. Chapter IV When Hera left Pompey’s Theatre, she went directly home. On the way pleasant recollections of her children filled her mind. She recalled Psyche as a little child. Once more she heard with the ear of imagination difficult Greek words childishly syllabled on Psyche’s lips. She heard again her childish voice strained with excessive happiness, singing an old Greek song. She recalled her childish expressions of joy and of sorrow. She thought of the small wooden doll that Psyche had loved like a mother; of the toys and household objects endeared to the whole family by association with Psyche’s childhood. She thought of Psyche in the religious festivals,--a little child, clad in pure white, her face suffused with holy zeal. She thought of her later, when Psyche led the chorus of youths and maidens, all carrying garlands of roses and daisies, and singing sacred melodies to Maia, goddess of spring. But when Psyche ceased to take part in the festivals, when maidenhood dimmed the radiance of childhood, that was the first vapor which veiled the sun of Hera’s happiness. However, this waning light of childhood merged almost imperceptibly into the silvery light of Psyche’s public career. Now even this was to be shadowed; for womanhood, like a semi-transparent shade of alabaster, would forever obscure the light of maidenhood. As she walked along, she was so occupied in contemplation that she passed a shrine of Apollo without offering a prayer. When she became aware of this omission, she was filled with anxious forebodings. To omit praying at Apollo’s shrine was a bad omen. But again her thoughts reverted to her children. Her heart’s love belonged to them. This time she thought especially of Gannon. Once again she followed him through all the changes of his young life. The first smile, the little outstretched hands, the first trembling footsteps, the loving caresses to her cheek, the tearful eyes,--all these pictures presented themselves to her. She heard his broken words echo in her ears, his complaints, his songs, and cries of joy. How her heart beat with delight when she saw her children in the innocent ecstasies of play! How she had smiled at their childish ideas!