mb up into that house. The owner will never come, I'm
sure."

Near them upon the mound was a dwelling of Arcady, in which surely a
shepherd sometimes lay and piped to the sun and the sea god. It was
lifted upon a tripod of poles, and was deftly made of brushwood, with
roof, floor and two walls all complete. A ladder of wood, from which the
bark had been stripped, led up to it.

"You want to sleep?" Dion asked.

She looked at him.

"Perhaps."

He helped her up to her feet. Quickly she mounted the ladder and stepped
into the room.

"Good-by!" she said, looking down at him and smiling.

"Good-by!" he answered, looking up.

She made a pretense of shutting a door and withdrawing into privacy. He
lit his pipe, hesitated a moment, then went to lie down under her room.
Now he no longer saw her, but he heard her movements overhead. The dry
brushwood crackled as she lay down, as she settled herself. She was
lying surely at full length. He guessed that she had stretched out her
arms and put her two hands under her head. She sighed. Below he echoed
her sigh with a long breath of contentment. Then they both lay very
still.

Marathon!

He remembered his schoolbooks. He remembered beginning Greek. He had
never been very good at Greek. His mother, if she had been a man and had
gone to Oxford or Cambridge, would have made a far better classic than
he. She had helped him sometimes during the holidays when he was
quite small. He remembered exactly how she had looked when he had been
conjugating--half-loving and half-satirical. He had made a good many
mistakes. Later he had read Greek history with his mother, he had read
about the battle of Marathon.

"Marathon"--it was written in his school history, "became a magic
word at Athens . . . the one hundred and ninety-two Athenians who had
perished in the battle were buried on the field, and over their remains
a tumulus or mound was erected, which may still be seen about half
a mile from the sea." As a small boy he had read that with a certain
inevitable detachment. And now here he lay, a man, on that very tumulus,
and the brushwood creaked above his head with the movement of the woman
he loved.

How wonderful was the weaving of the Fates!

And if some day he should sit in the place of his mother, and should
hear a small boy, his small boy, conjugating. By Jove! He would have to
rub up his classics! Not for ten years old; he wasn't so bad as that;
but for twenty, when the sma