noisseurs who throng the place. But even in the midst of
masterpieces, one group of statuary so far surpasses all the others
that it rivets the attention of the vast assembly.

"Who is the sculptor of this group?" demands Pericles. Envious artists
look from one to the other with questioning eyes, but the question
remains unanswered. No triumphant sculptor comes forward to claim the
wondrous creation as the work of his brain and hand. Heralds, in
thunder tones, repeat, "Who is the sculptor of this group?" No one can
tell. It is a mystery. Is it the work of the gods? or--and, with bated
breath, the question passes from lip to lip, "Can it have been
fashioned by the hand of a slave?"

Suddenly a disturbance arises at the edge of the crowd. Loud voices are
heard, and anon the trembling tones of a woman. Pushing their way
through the concourse, two officers drag a shrinking girl, with dark,
frightened eyes, to the feet of Pericles. "This woman," they cry,
"knows the sculptor; we are sure of this; but she will not tell his
name."

Neither threats nor pleading can unlock the lips of the brave girl. Not
even when informed that the penalty of her conduct was death would she
divulge her secret. "The law," says Pericles, "is imperative. Take the
maid to the dungeon."

Creon, who, with his sister, had been among the first to find his way
to the Agora that morning, rushed forward, and, flinging himself at the
ruler's feet, cried "O Pericles! forgive and save the maid. She is my
sister. I am the culprit. The group is the work of my hands, the hands
of a slave."

An intense silence fell upon the multitude, and then went up a mighty
shout,--"To the dungeon, to the dungeon with the slave."

"As I live, no!" said Pericles, rising. "Not to the dungeon, but to my
side bring the youth. The highest purpose of the law should be the
development of the beautiful. The gods decide by that group that there
is something higher in Greece than an unjust law. To the sculptor who
fashioned it give the victor's crown."

And then, amid the applause of all the people, Aspasia placed the crown
of olives on the youth's brow, and tenderly kissed the devoted sister
who had been the right hand of genius.

TURNING POINTS IN THE LIFE OF A HERO

I. THE FIRST TURNING POINT

David Farragut was acting as cabin boy to his father, who was on his
way to New Orleans with the infant navy of the United States. The boy
thought he had the qualities that