And now Theria must receive the grain to be laden in the ships, grain both for food and for planting. Theria tended the tiny grape-vines and treasured the seeds of useful herbs and vegetables to be carried over seas. No seeds of flowers, for the Greeks did not plant them. Besides, were not the slopes and capes of Sicily one far-flung flowerland? As for Nikander, the days were not long enough for him to teach his daughter all she now must know: the Delphic laws, the modes of city government, precautions for city health, religious customs in which she must be vigilant and exacting. Her hungry learning brought tears to Nikander’s eyes. But often these were tears of pride for the quickness of her mind, her strong opinion so intimately his own, her quick refusal of wrong methods or shallow reasoning. But it was perhaps Melantho who in these days noted the greatest change in Theria. Theria had always been haughty toward her mother, disobedient, and sharp of answer. Melantho’s commonplaceness, her willingness for the jog-trot woman’s life exasperated her daughter; and when Melantho had tried to make the daughter keep to the same dull pace there had arisen quarrels and bitterness. But in these days of free outlet Theria grew gentle toward her mother. Affectionate, though a little condescending withal as daughters are apt to be. Then while Theria was yet unaware the affection grew into respect for the stubby little figure that went pottering around the house making content out of such meagre materials. Homespuns, tapestries, embroidered things—these were Melantho’s joy. These like the gay patch-work quilts of a later day were the spirit-outlets for a housed woman. One day timidly she brought forth to her daughter a balcony hanging—a gorgeous thing. The little human figures wrought upon it told an ancient legend lost save that this ancient woven design preserved it to memory and men’s eyes. The little men and women were archaic, almost grotesque, but perfect in decorative value. For in Hellas even such delicate, perishable things took on the inevitable beauty which flowed from Greek souls through their fingers. Melantho spread it before Theria on a table. “Do you like it?” she asked. “It is beautiful—beautiful,” said Theria, passing a caressing hand over the deep reds and gorgeous peacock-blues. “Do you know, Mother, whenever this was hung from the balcony when I was a little child I used to shout and prance with joy. Many a time you punished me and did not know why I was noisy.” Melantho looked down. “How strange,” she said. “It always makes me feel that way, too.” “You, Mother! _You!_” “Of course,” corrected Melantho, “I never did it. I never pranced.” Theria laughed a thrill of affectionate laughter. “I wish you had,” she declared. “I was wondering,” said Melantho, hesitating, “if you would not take this with you to your new home.”