Theria sat beside him watching his play. The “something” was not going to happen to herself. Then surely it would happen to Dryas. Her heart began to yearn over her brother with that frightened tenderness which children know. She leaned over and kissed him. Dryas wiped off the kiss in frank disgust. “Don’t,” he said. She remembered the eagle. There was no bird so sure of omen as an eagle. “Dryas,” she said softly, “I’ll tell you a story now.” “No—please.” Yet Theria lingered. Dreadful it was that she could do nothing for her brother when the eagle would so soon be carrying him away. “I wish you would let me,” she said faintly. “I’ll give you all my honey cake at noon if you will.” To such a bribe Dryas consented, squatting down in a chubby heap beside his pebbles. “It’s about baby Hermes,” Theria began. “First, he was born, and when he was three hours old he got out of his cradle and walked straight up Parnassos Mountain—to the very top.” “He couldn’t,” objected her auditor. “But god-legs is strong.” “Presè’s got a baby three months old and it can’t walk yet. Its worse’n a puppy.” “Presè’s a slave. Slave legs is different.” “But even a god, he couldn’t do it.” And though Theria knew her story was correct, she did not press the point. “And little Hermes found some cows,” she went on. “Oh, beautiful wild cows with sharpy-sharp horns. All the cows were white and were eating white flowers that grow in the meadows up against the sky.” “Clouds?” suggested Dryas. “Yes, clouds were their food,” went on Theria who knew the tale by rote. “For they were the herd of Apollo. And the little baby called the cows and they left their white flowers and came; for who can resist the call of a god? And Hermes, swift of foot——” “Three-hours-old foot,” interposed Dryas. “—leaped down the path, and all the cows they followed him. And when he came to the deep forest he sacrificed the cows to his father, Zeus, and the smoke went up through the trees to heaven and smelt very sweet. Then Hermes found a tortoise, and out of the tortoise and the cows’ pretty horns he made a lyre—oh, the first, first lyre that ever was made. And the baby Hermes began to play on the lyre— ‘Twink, twink, Twinky, twink, twink’ —Oh, god-music, as pretty as Father plays or Pindar when he——” “Here, here!” came an unexpected voice. “It’s very well to compare Pindar to Hermes but your father is another matter.” The children scrambled to their feet with faces of delight. It was rare to see their father at this hour. And Father always brought gaiety. CHAPTER IV ELEUTHERIA LOOKS OUT OF A WINDOW Nikander was a tall slender man, a remarkable uniting of sensitiveness and force. Twelve generations of his forbears had been priests of Delphi, statesmen of wide outlook and ministers to the souls of men. Nikander was a resultant type.