"Drink this milk," said the child's mother, offering the young girl an earthen bowl. "There is not much and I could not spare it if Philo would eat like other children, but it seems as if it hurt him to swallow. He drinks two or three drops and eats a mouthful, and then will take no more even if he is beaten." "You have not been beating him again?" said Klea reproachfully, and drawing the child closer to her. "My husband--" said the woman, pulling at her dress in some confusion. "The child was born on a good day and in a lucky hour, and yet he is so puny and weak and will not learn to speak, and that provokes Pianchi." "He will spoil everything again!" exclaimed Klea annoyed. "Where is he?" "He was wanted in the temple." "And is he not pleased that Philo calls him 'father,' and you 'mother,' and me by my name, and that he learns to distinguish many things?" asked the girl. "Oh, yes of course," said the woman. "He says you are teaching him to speak just as if he were a starling, and we are very much obliged to you." "That is not what I want," interrupted Klea. "What I wish is that you should not punish and scold the boy, and that you should be as glad as I am when you see his poor little dormant soul slowly waking up. If he goes on like this, the poor little fellow will be quite sharp and intelligent. What is my name, my little one?" "Ke-ea," stammered the child, smiling at his friend. "And now taste this that I have in my hand; what is it?--I see you know. It is called-- whisper in my ear. That's right, mil--mil-milk! to be sure, my tiny, it is milk. Now open your little mouth and say it prettily after me-- once more--and again--say it twelve times quite right and I will give you a kiss--Now you have earned a pretty kiss--will you have it here or here? Well, and what is this? your ea-? Yes, your ear. And this?--your nose, that is right." The child's eyes brightened more and more under this gentle teaching, and neither Klea nor her pupil were weary till, about an hour later, the re-echoing sound of a brass gong called her away. As she turned to go the little one ran after her crying; she took him in her arms and carried him back to his mother, and then went on to her own room to dress herself and her sister for the procession. On the way to the Pastophorium she recalled once more her expedition to the temple and her prayer there. "Even before the sanctuary," said she to herself, "I could not succeed in releasing my soul from its burden--it was not till I set to work to loosen the tongue of the poor little child. Every pure spot, it seems to me, may be the chosen sanctuary of some divinity, and is not an infant's soul purer than the altar where truth is mocked at?" In their room she found Irene; she had dressed her hair carefully and stuck the pomegranate-flower in it, and she asked Klea if she thought she looked well.