Melantho’s commonplaceness, her willingness for the jog-trot woman’s life exasperated her daughter; and when Melantho had tried to make the daughter keep to the same dull pace there had arisen quarrels and bitterness.
But in these days of free outlet Theria grew gentle toward her mother. Affectionate, though a little condescending withal as daughters are apt to be. Then while Theria was yet unaware the affection grew into respect for the stubby little figure that went pottering around the house making content out of such meagre materials. Homespuns, tapestries, embroidered things—these were Melantho’s joy. These like the gay patch-work quilts of a later day were the spirit-outlets for a housed woman.
One day timidly she brought forth to her daughter a balcony hanging—a gorgeous thing. The little human figures wrought upon it told an ancient legend lost save that this ancient woven design preserved it to memory and men’s eyes. The little men and women were archaic, almost grotesque, but perfect in decorative value. For in Hellas even such delicate, perishable things took on the inevitable beauty which flowed from Greek souls through their fingers.
Melantho spread it before Theria on a table.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“It is beautiful—beautiful,” said Theria, passing a caressing hand over the deep reds and gorgeous peacock-blues. “Do you know, Mother, whenever this was hung from the balcony when I was a little child I used to shout and prance with joy. Many a time you punished me and did not know why I was noisy.”
Melantho looked down.
“How strange,” she said. “It always makes me feel that way, too.”
“You, Mother! You!”