“Oh, Master, ye must not be wroth with little mistress if I tell ye that she loves that good youth that found her on the mountain. Don’t ye blame her for it. She is a human child and Eëtíon loves her so dearly. She wants to see him, Master. She wants to see him.” “Poor Baltè, you cannot know that.” Baltè told what she had seen. “You forget,” said Nikander, “that your little mistress is priestess. It would be absolutely improper.” “She’s goin’ soon where there’s no proper nor unproper,” retorted Baltè in her broadest Doric. “An’ if she goes, what harm to gi’ her this wee bit of joy beforehand? An’ if she dies for lack of it, then it’s ye will be her murderer.” Baltè was determined to supplicate her master with the unrefusable supplication if she could get consent no other way. But at this moment came Eëtíon, all excited over what the priests had done. “It’s ye I am talkin’ o’, young man,” announced Baltè. “The master here says ‘no’. But the little mistress is pinin’ away for a sight of ye. She is thot.” “Is she better? Did she ask—oh, Nikander——” pleaded Eëtíon. “Baltè is dreaming. Go back to your little mistress, Baltè.” But Baltè stood her ground. “If the lad calls her she’ll answer him. Mark ye that.” “Will she answer? Do you really believe she will answer?” asked Eëtíon, his lips quivering with the memory of Theria’s unanswering silence on the mountain. “O love o’ Leto, stop askin’! Come!” said Baltè. And Nikander suddenly consented. Eëtíon came in with awe as one comes into a death chamber. He knelt by her couch, laid his brown, trembling hands over her two white ones, and, leaning close, called her—once, and again. Then an amazing thing happened: There passed slowly from off the dark lakes of eyes something as it were a shadow, leaving them sweet and sensible, leaving in them an ardent, dreamy look. Then the dream gave place to lovely awakening, which was Theria’s self—a surprised, outreaching love. Her lips framed a word: “Eëtíon.” Eëtíon forgot all about him. He gathered her close, kissing her, calling her. And now she spoke quite aloud, calling him in return with names and epithets as dear. “You have not forgotten me,” he was saying, “Oh, I thought you had forgotten.” “Never, never. I could not forget you in Acheron,” was her murmured answer. “Speak to me, me, also, my daughter,” pleaded Nikander. “Yes, Father. Dear, dear Father,” came her answer. No trace of fear or unaffection for all his angry words which had sent her away. She reached out her arms to him like a returning child. Baltè clapped her hands with loud sobs and shoutings. She, too, must kiss and rejoice over her little one. “Baltè,” said Nikander solemnly, “may the gods in my age give me such wisdom as yours. For my part I shall never question yours again. So now, dear Baltè, go and fetch Melantho.”