"Some more toast, father?" "Thank you, my dear." He took it, and there was an interval of peace. But he soon recommenced. "I'm not going to submit to the practising next door as tamely as they think. I wrote and told them so--didn't I?" "Yes," said Ethel, who had taken care that the letter should not reach. "I have seen the governess, and she has promised to arrange it differently. And Aunt Julia hates noise. It will sure to be all right." Her aunt, being the only unattached member of the family, was coming to keep house for her father when she left him. The reference was not a happy one, and Mr. Lucas commenced a series of half articulate sighs, which was only stopped by the arrival of the post. "Oh, what a parcel!" cried Ethel. "For me! What can it be! Greek stamps. This is most exciting!" It proved to be some asphodel bulbs, sent by Mrs. Forman from Athens for planting in the conservatory. "Doesn't it bring it all back! You remember the asphodels, father. And all wrapped up in Greek newspapers. I wonder if I can read them still. I used to be able to, you know." She rattled on, hoping to conceal the laughter of the children next door--a favourite source of querulousness at breakfast time. "Listen to me! 'A rural disaster.' Oh, I've hit on something sad. But never mind. 'Last Tuesday at Plataniste, in the province of messenia, a shocking tragedy occurred. A large tree'--aren't I getting on well?--'blew down in the night and'--wait a minute--oh, dear! 'crushed to death the five occupants of the little Khan there, who had apparently been sitting in the balcony. The bodies of Maria Rhomaides, the aged proprietress, and of her daughter, aged forty-six, were easily recognizable, whereas that of her grandson'--oh, the rest is really too horrid; I wish I had never tried it, and what's more I feel to have heard the name Plataniste before. We didn't stop there, did we, in the spring?" "We had lunch," said Mr. Lucas, with a faint expression of trouble on his vacant face. "Perhaps it was where the dragoman bought the pig." "Of course," said Ethel in a nervous voice. "Where the dragoman bought the little pig. How terrible!" "Very terrible!" said her father, whose attention was wandering to the noisy children next door. Ethel suddenly started to her feet with genuine interest. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "This is an old paper. It happened not lately but in April--the night of Tuesday the eighteenth--and we--we must have been there in the afternoon." "So we were," said Mr. Lucas. She put her hand to her heart, scarcely able to speak. "Father, dear father, I must say it: you wanted to stop there. All those people, those poor half savage people, tried, to keep you, and they're dead. The whole place, it says, is in ruins, and even the stream has changed its course. Father, dear, if it had not been for me, and if Arthur had not helped me, you must have been killed."