Then swiftly, businesslike, Theria had them carry her father, bed and all, into the street and sent Baltè for hot water which she applied. She was trembling in very childishness of grief. Sometimes she flung herself upon her father, kissing him, begging him to live. But nevertheless she kept on with her simple remedies—remedies she had used before. At last, so gradually that she could not tell when it began, the pain abated. Nikander’s eyes grew clear and his breath came even once more. “Daughter!” he spoke at last. “My darling girl.” And Baltè, putting down the steaming pot of water, gave a shout of joy. Meanwhile up in the Precinct the festival was going forward, but Theria had forgotten it. At length Nikander was strong enough to be carried back into the aula where he fell asleep. Then it was that Theria heard the sound of pipes and shouting in the street. Instinctively she ran upstairs to the window. The sacred drama was over. Here came the actors—now a happy, laughing rout. It was the custom that the Tempè procession leave the city in haste so as to out-distance all evil. First Dryas came running in the beautiful leaps which Greek racers used. His hair was streaming in the wind. He held aloft his silver bow in triumph and great joy. Then came the swift boy chorus with backward burning torches and beauty of fluttering garments, then the sacred women having an awkward time of it to keep the boys in sight. And the crowd laughing at them and shouting: “Good luck for the journey. The luck of Loxias.” So shouting, laughing, the picture of joyous life, they disappeared down the road. Ah, there was the last gleam of Dryas’s silver bow! “At least,” thought Theria, “when Dryas comes back, he will have Father to greet him instead of—instead——” Then with tender happiness—or was it the bitterness of missing her one festival—she hid her face, weeping. CHAPTER X A BOY CALLED SOPHOCLES One hot summer morning Melantho and her daughter were sitting in the upper room spinning. Or rather it was Melantho who was _sitting_. Theria was pacing to and fro at her task, stretching out the thread with free gesture, her fingers twisting, twisting like fluttering wings. Melantho noted how tall the girl had grown. “Her awkwardness, too, is passing,” she mused as Theria turned, sweeping the thin folds of her chiton against her supple limbs. So might Iris have looked, the slender goddess messenger, running to the divine threshold with news for the blessed gods. But Melantho had no thought of goddesses. “She will soon be old enough for a husband,” was Melantho’s thought. “I must speak to Nikander about it.” Theria sighed and paced again. “Theria,” said her mother, “if you would sit down you would not be so tired.” “Tired,” spoke the girl, frowning, “Great Hermes, why should I be tired except from this eternal sitting? There’s no breath in this room.”