rs of joy streamed down the freedman's face and fell on his
grey beard; and when his wife came towards him with her finger on her
lips, he whispered in a tremulous voice: "When I brought them here
you were afraid that the city people would drag us into ruin, but
nevertheless you received them as they deserved to be, and--he's going
to name him Pyrrhus--and now!--What has a poor fellow like me done to
have such great and beautiful blessings fall to my lot?"

"And I--I?" sobbed his wife. "And the child, the darling little
creature!"

This day of sunny happiness was followed by others of quiet joy, of the
purest pleasure, yet mingled with the deepest anxiety. They also brought
many an hour in which Helena found an opportunity to show her
prudence, while old Chloris and the fisherman's wife aided her by their
experience.

Every one, down to the greybeard whose name the little one bore,
declared that there had never been a lovelier young mother than Barine
or a handsomer child than the infant Pyrrhus; but Dion could no longer
endure to remain on the cliff.

A thousand things which he had hitherto deemed insignificant and allowed
to pass unheeded now seemed important and imperatively in need of his
personal attention. He was a father, and any negligence might be harmful
to his son.

With his bronzed complexion and long hair and beard he required little
aid to disguise him from his friends. In the garments shabby by long
use, and with his delicate hands calloused by work in the dock-yard, any
one would have taken him for a real fisherman.

Perhaps it was foolish, but the desire to show himself in the character
of a father to Barine's mother and grandparents and to Gorgias seemed
worth risking a slight danger; so, without informing Barine, who was now
able to walk about her room, he set out for the city after sunset on the
last day of July.

He knew that Octavianus was encamped in the Hippodrome east of
Alexandria. The white mounds which had risen there had been recognized
as tents, even from the Serpent Island. Pyrrhus had returned in the
afternoon with tidings that Antony's mounted troops had defeated those
of Octavianus. This time the news of victory could be trusted, for the
palace at Lochias was illuminated for a festival and when Dion landed
there was a great bustle on the quay. One shouted to another that all
would be well. Mark Antony was his old self again. He had fought like a
hero.

Many who yesterday had