“No,” said Caliphronas, walking forward in his stately fashion; “I have no love for the swarthy god of the Cyclops. For me, Venus!” “Pandemos!” “Or Urania, I care not which, provided the goddess is herself,” replied the Greek coolly. “Ah, we all worship those old pagan gods, who were but the incarnation of our own desires. You, Crispin, bow to Apollo; Mr. Maurice, you adore the Muse of Sculpture, of whose name I am ignorant; and Justinian loves the supreme Zeus, who gives power and dominion.” “And I?” asked Helena gayly; “whom do I worship, Andros?” “The inviolate Artemis!” “There’s a good deal of truth in what you say,” observed Justinian serenely; “but I should have thought your deity was Hermes.” The remark was so pointed that Caliphronas winced, but at once smiled gayly and replied in the same vein,— “Venus and Hermes—Love and Trickery! Well, doubtless the one helps the other.” “Such aid is not always effectual,” said Justinian significantly, whereat the Greek shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply. “Well, for my part,” observed Helena reflectively, “I do not worship Artemis so much as I do Demeter. There is something grand about the earth goddess who causes the earth to break into the glory of flowers.” “I think she must have been here,” said Maurice, looking round at the profusion of flowers. “Ah, these are all my treasures, Maurice. I adore flowers, and there is not a nook in Melnos where I have not hunted for blossoms. Yes, even up to the verge of the snows, where grow tiny saxifragas. Wait till you see our harvest—our vintage—then you will see Mother Demeter in her glory.” “Do you celebrate those festivals?” “Yes,” said Justinian quickly; “I keep up all the old Greek customs, though, of course, I adapt them to the needs of my people. The Bacchanalia of Melnos do not include the debauchery of Athens, nor are the Anthesphoria anything more than innocent flower festivals.” “In honor of Proserpina,” exclaimed Helena gayly. “Crispin, do you remember the Flower Hymn to Demeter you wrote long ago?” “Yes, very well; but I’m afraid my poems were very bad in those days. Can you remember it?” “Of course; but not in Greek, in English, I translated it myself.” “Sing it, Helena,” said her father, and his request was eagerly seconded by the whole company, especially by Maurice, who was anxious to hear a voice which he was sure would outvie the nightingale. Helena clasped her hands round her knees, and, lifting up her face to the stars, began to sing in a clear, sweet voice, which, though entirely untrained, had a trill in it like the liquid notes of a bird. I.