“I wouldn’t think of taking it,” said Theria. “It is too precious. And it belongs here in the dear old home where it has always been.” “Yes,” said Melantho. “The ship will be crowded with useful things which you really need.” Something in Melantho’s face, as she gathered the folds together, caught Theria. “Mother! Do you really want me to take it? You are willing to part with it?” she exclaimed. Melantho paused in her timid way. “You dear Mother,” said Theria, shaking her mother’s shoulders in affectionate protest. “Don’t you suppose I’d rather have it than a hundred merely useful things? I hated to be selfish.” Melantho’s face shone. “I have so many more.” “But none so glorious as this one, Mother. Oh, at first, when I have only a little hut, and hang this in it, it will be home. And, Mother, I’ll feel, when my babies are born and see this, that they will be seeing something that is really Delphi!—Delphi!” “Perhaps other children,” ventured Melantho, “other children of the colony will see it, too. The town will be so poor and bare at first. Nothing beautiful, nothing——” Melantho was quite unresigned to Theria’s going, could see no possible reason for it. “Yes,” Theria conceded. “It will be all of that, huts and mere shelters at first. But it will never look like that to me.” “Yes, but the children who are too little to remember Delphi,” objected Melantho. “How will it look to them?” “I will bring them to see this. Yes, I will. Until our temples are built and my dear Eëtíon makes statues of gods and men. Only think, Mother, it will be your gift—the gift of your fingers—which will keep alive our heritage of beauty, until the town brings it to life again in itself.” * * * * * Many a long hour did Nikander, Eëtíon, and Theria together study the maps of the western colonies. “You see,” said Nikander one day, “by this map how near Inessa lies to her unkind neighbour, Catana. That is a problem for you, Theria, for you also, Eëtíon.” But Eëtíon was studying the map with knitted brows. “I wish it showed whether marble is found there,” he said. “Do you suppose Syracuse would furnish bronze?” Nikander clapped him on the shoulder, laughing. “Oh, incorrigible sculptor, what did you promise me?” he asked. Eëtíon blushed like a boy. “In the new city,” he pleaded, “surely my fault will be overlooked.” “As leader in the new city,” responded Nikander, “you should set an example to all.” “Isn’t that rather _an_ undertaking, Nikander?” sighed the rueful artist. But Theria took Eëtíon’s brown, skilful hand in hers. “Nay, Father,” she said defensively. “Deny him not. He is a born sculptor, his gift is from the gods. We cannot stop it. As for me, I have been inquiring among the colonists. I have found several bronze workers, and workers of marble. These shall be Eëtíon’s helpers.” CHAPTER XLVII ALIEN MEADOWS