At this dear telling she burst into uncontrollable weeping. “Tuchè will not let me,” she kept saying like a frightened child. “No, she will not let me.”
“By the gods she will. Theria, quiet yourself. There, dear little one, Father will care for you now.”
He was like a tender nurse comforting her. He called the temple slave.
“Get this Pythia robe off my daughter at once,” he commanded. “Where is the white robe in which she came?”
He himself helped to fasten the shoulder pins, unheard-of service for a father. Often he kissed her when her tears ran down afresh. By his excitement he made it the harder for her to grow calm. Then he threw the himation over her head and face and hurried her out.
They reached home after a happy walk hand in hand. The open air was always tonic to Theria. She was her bright self again when they had reached the threshold. Melantho and Eëtíon were tending Dryas in the aula.
With a cry Eëtíon leaped up, knowing the beloved figure before her face was revealed. Melantho ran to her. Dryas reached out arms from his couch, calling, “Sister, Sister,” and the slaves came hurrying from everywhere.
Nikander had to explain a hundred questions how she came to be really free.
Dryas kept her hand affectionately.
“Now home will be home,” he said. “It has never been the same since you went away.”