“Wild roses red as dawn When nymphs awaken, Frail lilies white and wan As love forsaken. With primrose pale and daffodil, Forget-me-nots from hidden rill, And blossoms shaken By wintry breezes thin and chill, From orchards on the distant hill, With flowerets richer, rarer still, From thy breast taken,— II. “Brave marigolds who in the fields Outstay the swallow, Sunflowers whose burning shields Do eye Apollo, With pansies dark as honeyed wine, And reeds beloved by Pan divine For pipings hollow; Wild olive, laurel, scented pine, All these I offer at thy shrine, If thou wilt smile on me and mine, And blessings follow.” When her sweet voice died away, an emulous nightingale began to sing as if in rivalry, and Helena burst out into girlish laughter. “Do you like my translation, Crispin?” “It is charming—much better than the words.” “No, indeed!” said Maurice, who was enchanted with the song and the singer; “as Wordsworth would say, it is a very pretty piece of paganism.” “Oh, that faint praise is worse than blame.” “Well, gentlemen,” said Justinian, rising from his seat, “I am going to retire to rest, as I cannot do without my sleep. Old age is not like youth, you know. Helena!” “I am going, father,” she cried, springing to her feet. “Good-night, Andros—Crispin! good-night, Maurice!” “‘Good-night, and sweet dreams be thine,’” murmured Maurice from some poet. Their departure was a sign of breaking up, for Caliphronas, not feeling inclined for a conversation with two men he disliked so much, went off immediately; and after they had finished a last pipe, Maurice and Crispin sought their repose. “Well,” said Crispin, as they parted, “what do you think of Helena?” “Think of her!” echoed Maurice in an indescribable tone. “That she is simply perfection, far above what you told me. If your poetry is not better than your description, Crispin, it must be poor stuff.” “You are bewitched, Maurice. Beware the spells of Circe.” “Circe! No! she is no malignant enchantress, but a beautiful girlish angel.” “Nausicaa!” said Crispin gayly, and went off to bed. CHAPTER XIX. A MODERN ARCADIA.