It was a slender elastic figure, winged, the accepted victory form. Like the Ladas model she was moving strongly forward, moving as it seemed into the wind which swept back her long draperies in lovely, free, yet simple lines. She held her victory trumpet but had forgotten to sound it. Her dreamy face seemed looking through some parting of the mists and she was walking straight into her vision. She had forgotten present victory in victories to be. The figure, the countenance, the clean-shaped, filleted head were Theria’s own. “How did you ever capture her?” cried Nikander. “The very spirit of my Theria.” “She stood so at the prow of the ship,” said Eëtíon happily. “Day after day, questioning, questioning always and so full of joy. I did not put my hand to the clay until she was complete in my mind.” “Ah,” laughed Theria, “so that is the reason you looked at me so strangely and sometimes did not answer me. I thought it was because you loved me.” “And was it not?” Eëtíon retorted, kissing her. “This statue,” said Nikander, “shall be put at once into marble. And I require it as your first city-gift to Delphi.” Centuries afterward a sculptor of the Island of Samothrace turned to this pure statue of the earlier day for the type of his Winged Victory. In his later hands the draperies were more boisterous in the breeze, the figure more robust, the skill of handling more complete. But he never caught the far, sweet dreaminess of the face which Eëtíon knew. Nikander’s visit to the colony gave the citizens great courage and conviction. His praise was ardent, his criticism unsparing. Thus no doubt many a time had men of the mother city helped and inspired the little cities beyond the misty deep. Communication between Delphi and the colonies was astonishingly constant. As years went by Eëtíon and Theria journeyed back and forth over the sea carrying the city gifts to Delphi, bringing back Delphi’s encouragement and advice. Upon these journeys they took their children, the glorious children of whom Nikander had prophesied long before. During the first of these journeys, Theria longed with almost painful intensity for the arrival in Delphi. But once there, though she loved her “Place of Golden Tripods” more deeply than ever, she chafed at old restrictions, and, the sojourn over, she turned her face toward her western home feeling that it was home indeed. In this western home life was simple but very rich. From here the young victors went forth to the Pythian and Olympic games. It was of such western boys mainly that Pindar sang. Many such a boy was brought back to the little mountain place by his townsmen and celebrated almost as a god. Of these, three in succession were Theria’s own sons. It was easy to worship such youths not merely for their strength and outward beauty, but for their nimble wit and their delicate, fine-trained imagination. They were gentle seeming but strong as tempered steel.