d. His heart that had ached so long with its pent-up
message of Greece--the glory of her days, the beauty of temples and
statues and tombs--was freed by the tale of his lips. The world was
new-born for him. He lifted the empty fig-box, from which the child
had set free the butterfly that had hung imprisoned in its grey cocoon
throughout the long winter, and placed it carefully on the shelf. The
lettering traced along its side was faded and dim; but he saw again the
child's eyes lifted to it--the lips half-parted, the eager question and
swift demand--that he should tell her of Athens and the Parthenon--and
the same love and the wonder that dwelt in his own heart for the city of
his birth. It was a strange coincidence that the child should have come
to him. Perhaps she was the one soul in the great, hurrying city who
could care. They did not understand--these hurrying, breathless men and
women--how a heart could ache for something left behind across the
seas, a city of quiet, the breath of the Past--sorrow and joy and sweet
life.... No, they could not understand! But the child--He caught his
breath a little. Where was she--in the hurry and rush? He had not
thought to ask. And she was gone! Only for a moment the dark face
clouded. Then the smile flooded again. He should find her. It might
be hard--but he would search. Had he not come down the long way of the
Piraeus to the sea--blue in the sun. Across the great waters by ship,
and the long miles by train. He should find her.... They would talk
again. He laughed quietly in the dusky shop.

Then his eye fell upon it--the music roll that had slipped quietly to
the floor when her eager hand had lifted itself to touch the butterfly,
opening and closing his great wings in the fig-box. He crossed to it and
lifted it almost reverently, brushing a breath of dust from its leather
sides.... He bent closer to it, staring at a little silver plate that
swung from the strap. He carried it to the window, rubbing it on the
worn black sleeve, and bending closer, studying the deep-cut letters.
Then he lifted his head. A quick sigh floated from him. Miss Elizabeth
Harris, 108 Lake Shore Drive. He knew the place quite well--facing the
lake, where the water boomed against the great break-water. He would
take it to her--to-morrow--the next day--next week, perhaps.... He
wrapped it carefully away and laid it in a drawer to wait. She had asked
him to come.

V

THE GREEK PROFESSOR LAUGHS