There was no sound in the lane save the happy speaking of the waters. An amber light lay over all as if the sun were setting, and in this rich light everything stood distinct: ferns, rocks, and the tiny flowers on the mossy roof of Cousin Phaino’s house across the lane. Every little wave as it lifted in the stream turned golden and as it dived under again seemed to peep at Theria and laugh. Presently a child came down from the upper hills into the lane. What could so small a child have been doing up there alone in that wilderness of crags? But what a lovely child he was, what brave, erect little shoulders and rounded legs and what a mischievous, dream-haunted face! How fearlessly he leaped along! He was only a baby. Oh, why should he not leap? Wings were on his heels and two golden wings in his cap—Hermes, and no other! To Theria it was not strange that Hermes should thus stroll down Nikander’s lane. Not strange, but it made her very glad. Now the dear Hermes child paused by the stream, laid his tortoise lyre to his arm, and began to play. Theria had never heard such music. It was clear like the amber light and filled her with a joy that was to glisten softly down all her years. Yet it was very faint, that music. She had to strain her ears to hear. Presently under its rhythm the stream grew more turbulent. The waves dashed higher and turned to foaming white. And suddenly from each white wave where it tossed in swift succession there swam out into the air nymphs white as the foam, slender as flowers, immortally fair. Theria knew it was right for them to come. Nymphs were always the nursemaids of infant gods. Little Hermes must not wander alone, god though he be. How delicately they kissed him, bending over him, then rising, circling up and away as if carried by the breeze. Hermes was safe now no matter how rough the way. Suddenly a step sounded in the lane, “clump clump,” coming nearer. The nymphs and Hermes stopped still, listing as hares do in the path. Then instantly, thus poised, they vanished. “Lentils—good lentils, who’ll buy?” came the call of old Labba, the market woman, so tired with her day’s work, tramping home to her poor scraggy farm in the hills. Theria watched her. Poor Labba! She could not see the gods. Labba climbed the hill and was lost to view. Theria looked again. Yes—at once, as though bursting out of invisible pods, they came again, and with them the music so elfin clear. The nymphs formed a circle and danced, with feet which did not touch the rocks, around their baby god. Sometimes they circled above the stream, sometimes swept near under Theria’s very window. So they danced and danced. Baltè, searching anxiously through the house for her nurseling, found her at length in the far shadowy room. She was sitting by the window, her head resting on the window ledge over which was strewn loose her night-dark hair. She was sound asleep.