Theria’s first instinct was the woman’s, to mend her father’s disappointment by some diversion. “Father,” she said, “I have been thinking all day of the birds that Homer tells of on the Scamandrian plain.” He frowned and came out of his dream. “What is Homer to you, child?” he said impatiently. “Nothing, Father; but I often think of those things. I love the birds,” she added quietly. “They are so merry and move so swift, so swift. They are kind, too.” “Kind! What do you mean?” “They come to me when I go to the window—oh, just a few moments at the window, Father, to breathe the air. Then I call them their own calls and they fly down out of the air, very timid at first. I put out my hand and hold it still and talk to them. Finally, one of them is sure to flutter near and sit on my finger with its little sharp claws. They watch me with clever quick turnings of the head and chirp to make me laugh.” She leaned forward—very child in this childish pleasure. “Father, tell me what Homer says about the birds.” “I am in no mood for Homer’s lines.” And indeed he was not. But presently he began to say them— “As the many tribes of feathered birds, Wild geese and long-necked swans On the Asian mead by Kystrios stream Fly hither and thither joying in their plumage And with loud cries settle ever onward——” “What a picture!” he commented. “I never realized before how fine it is.” Did his nearness to the ardent Theria bring this realization? Who can tell how mind may leap toward mind? So they were sitting when Olen, the slave boy, came and stood beside them. “Master, a consultant,” he announced, “at the street door. He will not come in.” Nikander rose from the bench, strangely refreshed, and went to the outer aula. As Olen was following, Theria made him an imperious gesture and the slave reluctantly left ajar the dividing door. Then Theria moved to sit where she could command the outer room. She saw enter a man with white, wrecked face. “But I must not come in,” he objected. “O priest, I might bring it upon your house.” “My house is not afraid,” said Nikander. He sat down, indicating the bench beside him, and the man sat down fearfully, like one unclean, at the farther end. “It is a curse, O priest,” he said. “I am under a curse.” Very skilfully Nikander quieted him, urging upon him kindness and wisdom of the Oracle, persuading him to speak. It was a terrible tale of this man Corobios and his friend Pythias—one of those Greek friendships so seriously considered that marriage was not allowed between the children of the two.