“Tut,” he said, “I meant no harm.” Then he turned to the poet: “Pindar, I hope you are coming to us to-night, speaking of feasts; a symposium in Dryas’s honour.” Pindar frowned at the young man’s forwardness but assented, then smiled again as he turned to Dryas. “It was almost as good as your father’s victor song years ago.” “Oh, better, much better,” urged Nikander. At which Pindar moved onward, laughing, shaking his head. A lovable man, Pindar. They arrived finally at their own door. All the slaves were there bowing and curtseying, Medon, the old pedagogue, at their head. He peered up eagerly to see if the boy really wore the laurel crown and, at sight of it, trembled visibly with joy. “Little Dryas, little Dryas,” he crooned, all love. Nikander must needs stop to rehearse all his happiness to the old servant. And who so glad to hear as Medon! “All Dryas’s songs have been good,” Nikander finished. “But, oh, this one to-day is in a new class! Do you know what the rascal did, Medon? Brought out an utterly new poem, different from any I ever heard. Imagine my amazement when he started out—and my delight!” “Yes, Master, yes!” assented Medon. As they talked, they had been moving slowly through the andron and now entered the women’s court. Melantho, the mother, hearing them enter, came running down the stair to fold her son in her arms. Baltè, the old nurse, hobbled up. Nerea, Clito, and other slave girls came and kissed the hem of his robe. But Nikander missed one member of the household. “Where is Eleutheria?” he asked. Then he caught sight of her standing in the far corner of the court—his daughter, tall, delicately flushed with that air between shyness and pride which is common to all new-flowering things. “Daughter,” said Nikander, “we have come home with the crown!” She bowed her dark head, fingering her distaff with its tangled threads. “Come, my dear,” said Nikander, snapping his fingers to hasten her. “Come, greet your brother victor.” Then she looked up—a face full of some strange startling emotion. “No,” she half whispered. “No? What on earth do you mean?” “I cannot,” she spoke sharply. “I cannot praise him.” “You are ill,” said Nikander, going to her. Indeed he feared some fever had deprived her of her wits. “No, I am not ill.” “Then what madness is this? What nonsense!” Nikander could hardly believe in this sudden quarrel darkening the brightness of his day of joy. Dryas crossed over to her. He was ever the peacemaker. “What has happened, Theria?” He began gently. Her great eyes looked fearfully at him. “You know perfectly well what has happened. How dare you ask!” Nikander was now thoroughly angry. “Theria,” he said, “greet your brother at once or go to your room. Your whims are unbearable.” “Theria,” began Dryas again. But at his urging voice her anger took flame. “I won’t praise you!” she cried wildly. “You know the song is mine, mine. I made it myself.”