Her thoughts now were not of the school nor of Dryas, but of her father, the strange horror that her father should have done this and not seem to care. Always before this had he mended hurts, not made them. Facing this mystery her dearest faith tottered. Yet after a while even this dread grew faint. Thoughts faded into fancies. Then she fell asleep.
She must have slept a long while for she awoke strangely quiet. Her refuge place was a storeroom. Chests stood about full of things used only at festivals. There were also great earthen jars of grain and wine.
The room was stone floored, stone walled, but its far end was hewn into the native rock. Nikander’s house, standing on a side hill, was two storied in front but here at the back melted to the roof in the hillside. This room had a little low window—the only other window in the house besides that in Nikander’s room.
To this window the little girl crept, and leaned her two elbows on the ledge, her chin in her hands. The window showed her only the side lane which led up between the houses to lose itself in the hill above. This lane was wider than most of the lanes in Delphi, for it had been chosen by one of the mountain streams for a bed, and now in the springtime the foaming waters dashed downward between the house walls beside the footpath.
There was no sound in the lane save the happy speaking of the waters. An amber light lay over all as if the sun were setting, and in this rich light everything stood distinct: ferns, rocks, and the tiny flowers on the mossy roof of Cousin Phaino’s house across the lane. Every little wave as it lifted in the stream turned golden and as it dived under again seemed to peep at Theria and laugh. Presently a child came down from the upper hills into the lane. What could so small a child have been doing up there alone in that wilderness of crags? But what a lovely child he was, what brave, erect little shoulders and rounded legs and what a mischievous, dream-haunted face! How fearlessly he leaped along! He was only a baby. Oh, why should he not leap? Wings were on his heels and two golden wings in his cap—Hermes, and no other!
To Theria it was not strange that Hermes should thus stroll down Nikander’s lane. Not strange, but it made her very glad. Now the dear Hermes child paused by the stream, laid his tortoise lyre to his arm, and began to play. Theria had never heard such music. It was clear like the amber light and filled her with a joy that was to glisten softly down all her years. Yet it was very faint, that music. She had to strain her ears to hear.
Presently under its rhythm the stream grew more turbulent. The waves dashed higher and turned to foaming white. And suddenly from each white wave where it tossed in swift succession there swam out into the air nymphs white as the foam, slender as flowers, immortally fair.