Her Precinct hour was over. Where now to go? What to do? She was bitterly lonely. “Dryas can come to the Precinct whenever he will,” she thought heartbrokenly. “And Father brings him there and tells him all things. But I—I am hounded out as if I were a thief.” She would not go home! No, she would not go home—not yet. She crossed the highway into the eastern end of Delphi town, and passed down through it to the glen. The glen was deeper here, even wilder than where she had seen it below her home. It was so steep that no buildings could cling. It was given over to wild olives and laurel trees with gnarled roots, and to huge rocks, the gift of earthquakes from the cliffs above. Theria pushed doggedly down through it, tearing her hands, bruising her feet. At last, after a special tumble, she kirtled up her long chiton, pulling it up through her belt, took off her himation and formed it into a long roll which she tied about her waist. She was amazed at the ease this gave her. No wonder the Goddess Artemis could leap after the stag in this her special costume. Now she was in the midst of stark, slender pine trees which soared from the vale into the height to feather out against the sun. She paused with upturned face. “Are they always so solemn-thoughted, these dryads here?” she asked herself. For of course each tree had its dryad and the mood of the tree was the dryad’s own mood. “Do they always pray so seriously to their father Zeus?” Theria would never willingly have come into the forest. No Greek would have exchanged the man-beautified sanctuary for this wild. But once here the forest mysteriously received her. She who had never before known the sweet ministration of trees began to be strangely quieted. The forest distances, infinite yet hidden, mobile, shifting with her every step, what a relief after the rigid walls of her house. How twilight-dim it was. Yet sunlight filtered through the dimness—pools of gold among the tree roots, shatterings of gold on boles and boughs. Beneath her feet, which had never trod aught save floor and pavement, was the deep pine-needle mass springy under her step. She looked down, wondering at it; a carpet no hands had ever woven, or perhaps a carpet woven by some delicate god. So the forest silence entered her heart—the silence which is not silence at all, but the deep breathing of all living things. She seemed to have grown wings which would make her essentially free no matter in what house of stone or clay.