ome old museum had come to life and laughed in the sun. If Mrs. Philip
Harris had seen Alcibiades shoving his cart before him, along the
cobbled street, his head thrown back, his voice calling "Ban-an-nas!"
as he went, she would not have given him a thought. But here, in her
garden, in the white clothes that he wore, and sitting at her feet, it
was as if the gates to another world had opened to them--and both looked
back together at his own life. The mystery in the boy's eyes stirred
her--and the sound of his voice... there was something in it... beauty,
wonder--mystery. She drew a quick breath. "I think I will go in," she
said, and the boy lifted himself to help her--and only left her, under
the loggia, with a quick, grateful flash of the dark smile.

Mrs. Philip Harris slept that night--the chloral, on the little table
beside her, untouched. And the next day found her in the garden.

All the household watched--with quickened hope. The mistress of the
house had taken up her life, and the old quick orders ran through the
house. And no one spoke of the child. It was as if she were asleep--in
some distant room--veiled in her cloud. But the house came back to its
life. Only, the social groups that had filled it every summer were not
there. But there was the Greek boy, in the garden, and Miss Stone, and
Philip Harris whirring out at night and sitting on the terrace in the
dusk, the light of his cigar glimmering a little, as he watched the
Greek boy flung on the ground at his feet, his eyes playing with the
stars. He knew them all by name under the skies of Greece. Achilles had
taught them to him; and he counted them, like a flock, as he lay on the
terrace--rolling out the great Greek names while they girdled the sky
above him in a kind of homely chant.

When the boy had gone to bed Philip Harris remained smoking thoughtfully
and looking still at the stars. He had had a long talk with the surgeon
to-day and he had given his consent. The boy was well, he admitted--as
well as he was likely to be--perhaps. Give him three more days--then, if
nothing happened, they might question him.

Philip Harris threw away his cigar--and its glimmering light went out in
the grass. Overhead the great stars still circled in space, travelling
on toward the new day.

XX

THE TEST IS MADE

"I will ask the questions," Achilles had said, in his quiet voice, and
it had been arranged that he should come to Idlewood when the surgeon
gave