th her fingers, eyeing her
companion keenly.

"I presume," she said, with a tremor in her voice, "that you are an
Englishman, or an American who has studied Greek thought deeply, being
tired of modern people and modern ways, and that you are trying to get
back to an older, simpler way of living."

"It has ever been the custom," said Apollo, gently taking the tendril
of the vine from her fingers, "for a nation to refuse to believe the
divinity of the others' gods."

"Anyway," mused the girl, not quite conscious that she was speaking
aloud, "whatever you think, you are good to the shepherd."

He laughed outright.

"I find that most people are better than their beliefs," he answered.
"Now, Miss Willis, I wonder if I dare ask you questions about the way
of living that has brought you to believe in the divine efficacy of
unhappiness."

"My father is a clergyman," answered the girl, with a smile.

"Exactly!" said the heathen god.

"We have lived very quietly, in one of the streets of older New York.
I won't tell you the number, for of course it would not mean anything
to you."

"Of course not," said Apollo.

"He is rector of a queer little old-fashioned church that has existed
since the days of Washington. It is quaint and irregular, and I am
very fond of it."

"It isn't the Little Church of All the Saints?" demanded her companion.

"It is. How did you know?"

"Divination," he answered.

"Oh!" said Daphne. "Why don't you divine the rest?"

"I should rather hear you tell it, if you don't mind."

"I have studied with my father a great deal," she went on. "And then,
there have been a great many social things, for I have an aunt who
entertains a great deal, and she always needs me to help her. That has
been fun, too."

"Then it has been religion and dinners," he summarized briefly.

"It has."

"With a Puritan ancestry, I suppose?"

"For a god," murmured Daphne, "it seems to me you know a great deal too
much about some things, and not enough about others."

"I have brought you something," he said, suddenly changing the subject.

He lifted the sheepskin coat and held out to her a tiny lamb, whose
heavy legs hung helpless, and whose skin shone pink through the little
curls of wool. The girl stretched out her arms and gathered the little
creature in them.

"A warm place to lie, and warm milk are what it needs," he said. "It
was born out of its time, and its mother lies dead on the hills. Spring
i