They had risen to their feet, and were standing looking at that solemn altar, so noble in its hugeness amid the encircling green. No relic of paganism sculptured with nude figures, with wreathes and nymphs and long-drawn pomp of Panhellenic festival, but a severely plain mass of stainless stone, with no other indication of its meaning than the mystic word “Θεόν” cut thereon. After looking at it in silence for a few minutes, Helena gathered up her flowers in order to return home, for the sun was now at his zenith, and the heat intolerable. “Oh, not yet!” entreated Maurice, anxious to prolong the sweet communion; “you must make me my wreath.” “Are you Colin?” “I think so,” he said, kissing her fondly. “So do I,” she replied demurely; “therefore, Colin, I will finish your garland.” Once more she sat down on the steps and began busily wreathing the flowers together in long fragrant strings, while Maurice, lying lover-like at her feet on the flowery turf, looked ever up into the delicate beauty of her face, and wondered at his good fortune in being loved by such an enchanting divinity. Zoe and Dick came back armed with flowers, and Dick grinned somewhat sheepishly as he saw Maurice smile. A fellow-feeling, however, makes us wondrous kind, so Maurice made no remark, but sent Zoe and her swain with their newly gathered flowers down to the Acropolis. “Do you think Dick is in love with Zoe?” asked Helena, when the laughter of the sailor and his companion had died away. “Do I think you are in love with me?” retorted Maurice lazily. “My dearest, Dick is as much in love with that wicked little brunette, as I am with a certain charming blonde.” “I’m glad of that,” said Helena complacently. “I do not wish to lose Zoe.” “You must when she marries.” “Oh no! If Dick becomes her husband, he will stay here. I’m sure he would not mind, as he is very fond of you.” “That’s very kind of him, considering the battering I gave him yesterday.” “Oh, Maurice, it was terrible!” “For Dick?” “No; for you.” “Poor Dick! he got the worst of it, yet you pity me.” “Ah, but you see I’m not engaged to Dick,” said Helena gravely, holding out a wreath to him. “No; but Zoe is. At least, if she is not now, she soon will be. But come, Helena, fasten this wreath round my hat.” Helena obediently did so, and then placed it on her lover’s head, upon which he gave her a kiss, and insisted that she should deck herself with the remaining flowers. Nothing loath, Helena did so, and was shortly one mass of delicious bloom, from which her face peered out like some laughing Dryad. Rose-wreath on her golden head, green myrtle girding her slender waist, and flowers of myriad hues bedecking her dress, she looked indeed like Chloris, the goddess of flowers, to whom Maurice had so often compared her.