racious acceptableness before her.

She wrinkled her forehead at them. "Well--you might as well cut me off
six."

"A pleasure, madame." He had seized the heavy knife.

"Give me that one." It was a large one near the centre; "and this one
here--and here."

When the six were selected and cut off they were the cream of the
bunch. She eyed him doubtfully, still scowling a little. "Yes. I'll take
these."

The Greek bowed gravely over the coin she dropped into his palm. "Thank
you, madame."

It was later now, and the crowd moved more slowly, with longer pauses
between the buyers.

A boy with a bag of books stopped for an apple. Two children with their
nurse halted a moment, looking at the glowing fruit. The eyes of the
children were full of light and question. Somewhere in their depths
Achilles caught a flitting shadow of the Parthenon. Then the nurse
hurried them on, and they, too, were gone.

He turned away with a little sigh, arranging the fruit in his slow
absent way. Something at the side of the stall caught his eye, a little
movement along the board, in and out through the colour and leaves. He
lifted a leaf to see. It was a green and black caterpillar, crawling
with stately hunch to the back of the stall. Achilles watched him
with gentle eyes. Then he leaned over the stall and reached out a long
finger. The caterpillar, poised in midair, remained swaying back and
forth above the dark obstruction. Slowly it descended and hunched itself
anew along the finger. It travelled up the motionless hand and reached
the sleeve. With a smile on his lips Achilles entered the shop. He
took down an empty fig-box and transferred the treasure to its depths,
dropping in after it one or two leaves and a bit of twig. He fitted the
lid to the box, leaving a little air, and taking the pen from his desk,
wrote across the side in clear Greek letters. Then he placed the box
on the shelf behind him, where the wet ink of the lettering glistened
faintly in the light. It was a bit of the heart of Athens prisoned
there; and many times, through the cold and snow and bitter sleet of
that winter, Achilles took down the fig-box and peered into its depths
at a silky bit of grey cradle swung from the side of the box by its
delicate bands.

II

A BUTTERFLY SPREADS ITS WINGS

It happened, on a Wednesday in May that Madame Lewandowska was ill.
So ill that when Betty Harris, with her demure music-roll in her hand,
tapped at the door of M