t is enough!" cried her father's impatient voice. He glanced up at
the flood of light which the blinding sun of Alexandria was pouring into
the room, as it did every autumn afternoon; but as soon as the shadow
fell on his work-table the old man's busy fingers were at work again, and
he heeded his daughter no more.

An hour later Melissa again, and without any bidding, pulled up the
screen as before, but it was so much too heavy for her that the effort
brought the blood into her calm, fair face, as the deep, rough "That is
enough" was again heard from the work-table.

Then silence reigned once more. Only the artist's low whistling as he
worked, or the patter and pipe of the birds in their cages by the window,
broke the stillness of the spacious room, till the voice and step of a
man were presently heard in the anteroom.

Heron laid by his graver and Melissa her gold embroidery, and the eyes of
father and daughter met for the first time for some hours. The very birds
seemed excited, and a starling, which had sat moping since the screen had
shut the sun out, now cried out, "Olympias!" Melissa rose, and after a
swift glance round the room she went to the door, come who might.

Ay, even if the brother she was expecting should bring a companion, or a
patron of art who desired her father's work, the room need not fear a
critical eye; and she was so well assured of the faultless neatness of
her own person, that she only passed a hand over her brown hair, and with
an involuntary movement pulled her simple white robe more tightly through
her girdle.

Heron's studio was as clean and as simple as his daughter's attire,
though it seemed larger than enough for the purpose it served, for only a
very small part of it was occupied by the artist, who sat as if in exile
behind the work-table on which his belongings were laid out: a set of
small instruments in a case, a tray filled with shells and bits of onyx
and other agates, a yellow ball of Cyrenian modeling-wax, pumice-stone,
bottles, boxes, and bowls.

Melissa had no sooner crossed the threshold, than the sculptor drew up
his broad shoulders and brawny person, and raised his hand to fling away
the slender stylus he had been using; however, he thought better of it,
and laid it carefully aside with the other tools. But this act of
self-control must have cost the hot-headed, powerful man a great effort;
for he shot a fierce look at the instrument which had had so narrow an
escape,