Betty Harris sat very still—her hands in her lap, her face lifted to the breeze that touched it swiftly and fingered her hair and swept past. Presently she looked up with a nod—as if the breeze reminded her. “I should like to see Mr. Achilles,” she said.

“Not to-day,” answered Miss Stone, “we must do the errands for mother to-day, you know.”

The child’s face fell. “I wanted to see Mr. Achilles,” she said simply. She sat very quiet, her eyes on the lake. When she looked up, the eyes had brimmed over.

“I didn’t mean to,” said the child. She was searching for her handkerchief and the little cherries bobbed forward. “I didn’t know they would spill!” She had found the handkerchief now and was wiping them away, and she smiled at Miss Stone—a brave smile—that was going to be happy—

Miss Stone smiled back, with a little head-shake. “Foolish, Betty!”

“I didn’t expect them,” said the child, “I was just thinking about Mr. Achilles and they came—just came!—They just came!” she repeated sternly. She gave a final dab to the handkerchief and stowed it away, sitting very erect and still.

Miss Stone’s eyes studied her face. “We cannot go to-day,” she said, “—and to-morrow we start for the country. Perhaps—” she paused, thinking it out.

But the child’s eyes took it up—and danced. “He can make us a visit,” she said, nodding—“a visit of three weeks!” She smiled happily.

Miss Stone smiled back, shaking her head. “He could not leave the fruit-shop—”

But the child ignored it. “He will come,” she said quickly, “and we shall talk—and talk—about the gods, you know—” She lifted her eyes, “and we shall go in the fields—He will come!” She drew a deep sigh of satisfaction and lifted her head.

And Miss Stone, watching her, had a feeling of quick relief. She had known for a day or two that the child was not well, and they had hurried to get away to the fields. This was their last drive. To-morrow the horses would be sent on; and the next day they would all go—in the great touring car that would eat up the miles, and pass the horses, and reach Idlewood long before them.

No one except Betty and Miss Stone used the horses now. They would have been sold long ago had it not been for the child. The carriage was a part of her—and the clicking hoofs and soft-shining skins and arching necks. The sound of the hoofs on the pavement played little tunes for Betty. Her mother had protested against expense, and her father had grumbled a little; but if the child wanted a carriage rather than the great car that could whir her away in a breath, it must be kept.

It made a pretty picture this morning as it turned into the busier street and took its way among the dark, snorting cars that pushed and sped. It was like a delicate dream that shimmered and touched the pavement—or like a breath of the past... and the great cars skimmed around it and pushed on with quick honk and left it far behind.

But the carriage kept its way with unhurried rhythm—into the busy street and out again into a long avenue where great houses of cement and grey stone stood guard.

No one was in sight, up and down its clear length—only the morning sun shining on the grey stones and on the pavement—and the little jingling in the harness and the joyous child and the quiet grey woman beside her.

“I shall not be gone a minute, Betty,” said Miss Stone. The carriage had drawn up before the great shadow of a house. She gave the child’s hand a little pat and stepped from the carriage.

But at the door there was a minute’s question and, with a nod to Betty, she stepped inside.

When the door opened again, and she came out with quick step she glanced at her watch—the errand had taken more than its minute, and there were others to be done, and they were late. She lifted her eyes to the carriage—and stopped.

The coachman, from the corner of his eye, waited for orders. But Miss Stone did not stir. Her glance swept the quiet street and came back to the carriage—standing with empty cushions in the shadow of the house.

The coachman turned a stolid eye and caught a glimpse of her face and wheeled quickly—his eye searching space. “There wa’n’t nobody!” he said. He almost shouted it, and his big hands gripped hard on the reins.... His face was grey—“There wa’n’t nobody here!” he repeated dully.

But Miss Stone did not look at him. “Drive to the Greek’s. You know—where she went before.” She would not give herself time to think—sitting a little forward on the seat—of course the child had gone to the Greek—to Mr. Achilles.... They should find her in a minute. There was nothing else to think about—no shadowy fear that had leaped to meet the look in James’s face when it turned to her. The child would be there—

The carriage drew up before the shop, with its glowing lines of fruit under the striped awning, and Miss Stone had descended before the wheel scraped the curb, her glance searching the door and the dim room beyond. She halted on the threshold, peering in.

A man came from the rear of the room, his hands outstretched to serve her. The dark, clear face, with its Greek lines, and the eyes that looked out at her held a welcome. “You do me honour,” he said. “I hope Madame is well—and the little Lady—?” Then he stopped. Something in Miss Stone’s face held him—and his hand groped a little, reaching toward her—“You—tell me—” he said.

But she did not speak, and the look in her face grew very still.

He turned sharply—calling into the shop behind him, and a boy came running, his eyes flashing a quick laugh, his teeth glinting.

“I go,” said the man, with quick gesture—“You keep shop—I go.” He had taken off his white apron and seized a hat. He touched the woman on the shoulder. “Come,” he said.

She looked at him with dazed glance and put her hand to her head. “I cannot think,” she said slowly.

He nodded with steady glance. “When we go, you tell—we find her,” he said.

She started then and looked at him—and the clear colour came to her face. “You know—where—she is!”

But he shook his head. “We find her,” he repeated. “You tell.”

And as they threaded the streets—into drays and past clanging cars and through the tangle of wheels and horses and noise—and she told him the story, shouting it above the rumble and hurry of the streets, into the dark ear that bent beside her.

The look in Achilles’s face deepened, but its steady quiet did not change. “We find her,” he repeated each time, and Miss Stone’s heart caught the rhythm of it, under the hateful noise. “We find her.”

Then the great house on the lake faced them.

She looked at him a minute in doubt. Her face broke—“She may have come—home?” she said.

“I go with you,” said Achilles.

There was no sign of life, but the door swung open before them and they went into the great hall—up the long stairway that echoed only vacant softness, and into the library with its ranging rows of perfect books. She motioned him before her. “I must tell them,” she said. She passed through the draperies of another door and the silence of the great house settled itself about the man and waited with him.