into the street. The little hand was lifted higher. It was a regal
gesture--the return of the princess to earth.

James touched his hat--a look of dismay and relief battling in his face
as he turned the horses sharply to the right. They paused in front of
the stall, their hoofs beating dainty time to the coursing of their
blood.

Achilles eyed them lovingly. The spirit of Athens dwelt in their arching
necks.

He opened the door for the child with the quiet face and shining eyes.
Gravely he salaamed as she entered the carriage.

Through the open window she held out a tiny hand. "I hope you will come
and see me," she said.

"Yes, I come," said Achilles, simply. "I like to come."

James dropped a waiting eye.

"Home, James."

The horses sprang away. Achilles Alexandrakis, bareheaded in the spring
sunshine, watched the carriage till it was out of sight. Then he turned
once more to the stall and rearranged the fruit. The swift fingers
laughed a little as they worked, and the eyes of Achilles were filled
with light.

III

BETTY'S MOTHER HEARS A STORY

"Mother-dear!" It was the voice of Betty Harris--eager, triumphant, with
a little laugh running through it. "Mother-dear!"

"Yes--Betty--" The woman seated at the dark mahogany desk looked up,
a little line between her eyes. "You have come, child?" It was half a
caress. She put out an absent hand, drawing the child toward her while
she finished her note.

The child stood by gravely, looking with shining eyes at the face
bending above the paper. It was a handsome face with clear, hard
lines--the reddish hair brushed up conventionally from the temples, and
the skin a little pallid under its careful massage and skilfully touched
surface.

To Betty Harris her mother was the most beautiful woman in the
world--more beautiful than the marble Venus at the head of the long
staircase, or the queenly lady in the next room, forever stepping down
from her gilded frame into the midst of tapestry and leather in the
library. It may have been that Betty's mother was quite as much a work
of art in her way as these other treasures that had come from the Old
World. But to Betty Harris, who had slight knowledge of art values, her
mother was beautiful, because her eyes had little points of light in
them that danced when she laughed, and her lips curved prettily, like a
bow, if she smiled.

They curved now as she looked up from her note. "Well, daughter?" She
had sealed the