“Baltè is not outside folk. I will refrain from all speech with her, if that is the rule, nor will I allow her to speak.” “That makes no difference,” said the old peasant woman, joying in her authority. “It is against the law.” Theria’s heart bounded with anger. “How dare you mistrust me, woman? Have I not the good of the oracle at heart more than you? Go at once and fetch me Baltè.” The house mistress bowed and went out. And presently the Pythian slave appeared, very timid, and eyeing her, secretly amused. Theria looked hard at her. “Go out,” she commanded. “How dare you enter my room when I have not sent for you?” The woman withdrew but Theria was conscious that she lingered in the court. Never in all her life had any one dressed Theria but Baltè. It was quite unthinkable that any one else should do it. Theria was a spoiled child in this. Awkwardly she unpinned her white robe herself, folded it away, and donned her Pythia habit. But anger is the arch destroyer of prayer. Theria could not pray now. Besides, she was mortally hungry. In her excitement last night she had eaten almost nothing. Now she must fast for three days to come. She supposed, of course, that the hunger would grow worse and worse. She walked up and down the room when she should have remained still, saving her strength. “What do I care for hunger?” she kept saying proudly. “For mere hunger when Athens is in danger of burning!” But it was only by an effort that she could hold her mind on Athens. Her thoughts kept rising, floating away like clouds. Eëtíon, where was he to-day? Somewhere in the Precinct? Was he thinking of her? Surely of naught else. Word after word of his came flashing back to her, snatching her breath with joy. Now his very touch, his trembling kindness filled her with a new and terrible longing. Only one dear hour of love in all her long life would she ever have to treasure and remember. Suddenly with a wrench she brought her thoughts back to the present. “Love of Leto, how the poor little Pythia moaned in her room across the court.” It was impossible for Theria to be near suffering and not try to help. She hurried across the court and entered the room. Aristonikè lay upon a couch, her eyes staring and bright. She was thin as a blade of grass, looked a mere child with her poor little cheekbones so prominent and white and her tiny chin so pointed. Theria came and stroked the pathetic face. “Poor little Aristonikè, poor little girl,” she said. The wandering eyes fixed themselves upon her. “Who?” she whispered. “I am Theria, daughter of Nikander. Where is your pain, dear child?” “Not anywhere—all over.” “Are you hungry?” asked Theria. This thought was so present with herself. “Aach,” said the little creature, turning with disgust. The slave who sat at the bedside answered for her. “She will not eat these many days, Mistress; and she never sleeps, never, after an oracle.”