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 Madame Lewandowska’s studio, she found no one within.

On ordinary days this would not have mattered, for the governess, Miss Stone, would have been with her, and they would have gone shopping or sightseeing until the hour was up and James returned. But to-day Miss Stone, too, was ill, James had departed with the carriage, and Betty Harris found herself standing, music-roll in hand, at the door of Madame Lewandowska’s studio—alone in the heart of Chicago for the first time in the twelve years of her life.

It had been a very carefully guarded life, with nurses and servants and instructors. No little princess was ever more sternly and conscientiously reared than little Betty Harris, of Chicago. For her tiny sake, herds of cattle were slaughtered every day; and all over the land hoofs and hides and by-products and soap-factories lifted themselves to heaven for Betty Harris. If anything were to happen to her, the business of a dozen States would quiver to the core.

She tapped the marble floor softly with her foot and pondered. She might sit here in the hall and wait for James—a whole hour. There was a bench by the wall. She looked at it doubtfully.... It was not seemly that a princess should sit waiting for a servant—not even in marble halls. She glanced about her again. There was probably a telephone somewhere—perhaps on the ground floor. She could telephone home and they would send another carriage. Yes, that would be best. She rang the elevator bell and descended in stately silence. When she stepped out of the great door of the building she saw, straight before her, the sign she sought—“Pay Station.”

But then something happened to Betty Harris. The spirit of the spring day caught her and lifted her out of herself. Men were hurrying by with light step. Little children laughed as they ran. Betty skipped a few steps and laughed softly with them.... She would walk home. It was not far. She had often walked as far in the country, and she knew the way quite well.... And when she looked up again, she stood in front of the glowing fruit-stall, and Achilles Alexandrakis was regarding her with deep, sad eyes.

Achilles had been dreaming down the street when the little figure came in sight. His heart all day had been full of sadness—for the spring in the air. And all day Athens had haunted his steps—the Athens of dreams. Once when he had retired into the dark, cool shop, he brushed his sleeve across his eyes, and then he had stood looking down in surprise at something that glistened on its worn surface.

Betty Harris looked at him and smiled. She had been so carefully brought up that she had not learned that some people were her inferiors and must not be smiled at. She gave him the straight, sweet smile that those who had cared for her all her life loved so well. Then she gave a little nod. “I’m walking home,” she said.

Achilles leaned forward a little, almost holding his breath lest she float from him. It was the very spirit of Athens—democratic, cultured, naive. He gave her the salute of his country. She smiled again. Then her eye fell on the tray of pomegranates near the edge of the stall—round and pink. She reached out a hand. “I have never seen these,” she said, slowly. “What are they?”

“Pomegranates—Yes—you like some? I give you.”

He disappeared into the shop and Betty followed him, looking about with clear, interested eyes. It was like no place she had ever seen—this cool, dark room, with its tiers on tiers of fruit, and the fragrant, spicy smell, and the man with the sad, kind face. Her quick eye paused—arrested by the word printed on a box on the shelf to the right.... Ah, that was it! She knew now quite well. He was a Greek man. She knew the letters; She had studied Greek for six months; but she did not know this word. She was still spelling it out when Achilles returned with the small box of pomegranates in his hand.

She looked up slowly. “I can’t quite make it out,” she said.

“That?” Achilles’s face was alight. “That is Greek.”

She nodded. “I know. I study it; but what is it—the word?”

“The word!—Ah, yes, it is—How you say? You shall see.”

He reached out a hand to the box. But the child stopped him. A quick thought had come to her. “You have been in Athens, haven’t you? I want to ask you something, please.”

The hand dropped from the box. The man turned about, waiting. If heaven were to open to him now—!

“I’ve always wanted to see a Greek man,” said the child, slowly, “a real Greek man. I’ve wanted to ask him something he would know about. Have you ever seen the Parthenon?” She put the question with quaint seriousness.

A light came into the eyes of Achilles Alexandrakis. It flooded the room.

“You ask me—the Parthenon?” he said, solemnly. “You wish me—tell that?” It was wistful—almost a cry of longing.

Betty Harris nodded practically. “I’ve always wanted to know about it—the Parthenon. They tell you how long it is, and how wide, and what it is made of, and who began it, and who finished it, and who destroyed it, but they never, never”—she raised her small hand impressively—“they never tell you how it looks!”

Achilles brought a chair and placed it near the open door. “Will it—kindly—you sit?” he said, gravely.

She seated herself, folding her hands above the music-roll, and lifting her eyes to the dark face looking down at her. “Thank you.”

Achilles leaned back against the counter, thinking a little. He sighed gently. “I tell you many things,” he said at last.

“About the Parthenon, please,” said Betty Harris.

“You like Athens?” He said it like a child.

“I should like it—if they would tell me real things. I don’t seem to make them understand. But when they say how beautiful it is—I feel it here.” She laid her small hand to her side.

The smile of Achilles held the glory in its depths. “I tell you,” he said.

The clear face reflected the smile. A breath of waiting held the lips. “Yes.”

Achilles leaned again upon his counter. His face was rapt, and he spread his finger-tips a little, as if something within them stirred to be free.

“It stands so high and lifts itself”—Achilles raised his dark hands—“ruined there—so great—and far beneath, the city lies, drawing near and near, and yet it cannot reach... And all around is light—and light—and light. Here it is a cellar”—his hands closed in with crushing touch—“but there—!” He flung the words from him like a chant of music, and a sky stretched about them from side to side, blue as sapphire and shedding radiant light upon the city in its midst—a city of fluted column and curving cornice and temple and arch and tomb. The words rolled on, fierce and eager. It was a song of triumph, with war and sorrow and mystery running beneath the sound of joy. And the child, listening with grave, clear eyes, smiled a little, holding her breath. “I see it—I see it!” She half whispered the words.

Achilles barely looked at her. “You see—ah, yes—you see. But I—I have not words!” It was almost a cry.... “The air, so clear—like wine—and the pillars straight and high and big—but light—light—reaching....” His soul was among them, soaring high. Then it returned to earth and he remembered the child.

“And there is an olive-tree,” he said, kindly, “and a well where Poseidon—”

“I’ve heard about the well and the olive-tree,” said the child; “I don’t care so much about them. But all the rest—” She drew a quick breath. “It is very beautiful. I knew it would be. I knew it would be!”

There was silence in the room.

“Thank you for telling me,” said Betty Harris. “Now I must go.” She slipped from the chair with a little sigh. She stood looking about the dim shop. “Now I must go,” she repeated, wistfully.

Achilles moved a step toward the shelf. “Yes—but wait—I will show you.” He reached up to the box and took it down lightly. “I show you.” He was removing the cover.

The child leaned forward with shining eyes.

A smile came into the dark, grave face looking into the box. “Ah, he has blossomed—for you.” He held it out to her.

She took it in shy fingers, bending to it. “It is beautiful,” she said, softly. “Yes—beautiful!”

The dark wings, with shadings of gold and tender blue, lifted themselves a little, waiting.

The child looked up. “May I touch it?” she asked.

“Yes—But why not?”

The dark head was bent close to hers, watching the wonderful wings.

Slowly Betty Harris put out a finger and stroked the wings.

They fluttered a little—opened wide and rose—in their first flutter of light.

“Oh!” It was a cry of delight from the child.

The great creature had settled on the bunch of bananas and hung swaying. The gold and blue wings opened and closed slowly.

Achilles drew near and put out a finger.

The butterfly was on it.

He held it toward her, smiling gently, and she reached up, her very breath on tiptoe. A little smile curved her lips, quick and wondering, as the transfer was made, thread by thread, till the gorgeous thing rested on her own palm.

She looked up. “What shall I do with it?” It was a shining whisper.

Achilles’s eyes sought the door.

They moved toward it slowly, light as breath.

In the open doorway they paused. Above the tall buildings the grey rim of sky lifted itself. The child looked up to it. Her eyes returned to Achilles.

He nodded gravely.

She raised her hand with a little “p-f-f”—it was half a quick laugh and half a sigh.

The wings fluttered free, and rose and faltered, and rose again—high and higher, between the dark walls—up to the sky, into the grey—and through.

The eyes that had followed it came back to earth. They looked at each other and smiled gravely—two children who had seen a happy thing.

The child stood still with half-lifted hand.... A carriage drove quickly 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.