within his reach; so she flirted with Caliphronas, and would have flirted with Crispin, had he given her a chance, yet cared more for Maurice, whom she thus tortured, than for all the rest put together. To-day she was on her best behavior, however, and was seated with Maurice in the court, weaving a coronal of flowers for her adornment at dinner. Helena was fond of wreaths, and rarely made her appearance at any meal without a chaplet of roses, or ivy and violets, or delicate white lilies adorning her golden tresses. Crispin was in his room, engaged in writing his drama. Caliphronas was holding the above-mentioned conversation with Justinian; and the two young people sat lazily in the sunshine, Maurice smoking cigarettes, and Helena weaving her wreath with myrtle and roses and sweet-smelling violets. The sun shone brightly on the white marble court, with its treasures of many-colored blossoms, the fountain flashed like fire in the lustrous light, and the white pigeons whirling aloft in the cloudless brilliance of the sky, at times settled down on the roof in milky lines with gentle cooings. Helena, with her hands buried in flowers and many-colored ribbons, was humming a quaint little song of the madrigal type, set to a simple, sweet melody, which rendered it very charming. “Chloe, take you rose and myrtle, Weave them in a dainty fashion, Deck with such your rustic kirtle, They are type of Colin’s passion. For with roses do I woo thee, Sue thee! woo thee! woo thee! sue thee! Hey, pretty maiden, I come a-courting, Join me, I pray, in such merry, merry sporting, With a fa-la-la-la, pretty maiden. Colin, take you pansies only, From your dream of love awaken, Deck with such your cottage lonely, They are type of love forsaken. For with pansies do I flout thee, Doubt thee! flout thee! flout thee! doubt thee! Hey, jolly shepherd, come not a-courting, Join will I not in such silly, silly sporting, With a fa-la-la-la, jolly shepherd.” “Where did you learn that pretty song?” asked Maurice, whom the air struck as familiar. “My father taught it to me,” replied Helena, putting her head on one side to observe the effect of a newly added rose. “Is it not dainty? Ribbons, and silks, and flowers, and pipings; quite unlike the real shepherds and shepherdesses of Melnos, but deliciously delicate for all that.” “I wonder where your father picked it up?” “Oh, father knows plenty of old tunes, and I am so fond of them. Why do you ask?” “Because, curiously enough, that song was written by a Carolean ancestor of mine, and I cannot think how Justinian came to know it.” “It is strange, certainly,” said Helena thoughtfully. “Helena, who is your father?” asked Maurice impulsively. “Demarch of Melnos.”