For, strange to say, in Melantho’s frequent headaches it was Theria’s little magnetic hands which helped most of all.
“Apollo has blessed the child with his healing touch,” old Baltè was wont to say.
But now Baltè called in vain, and at last, fearing that her charge might be in forbidden quarters, she left off her call.
But the interminable poem went on. It mingled at last in Theria’s ears into a soft humming. Torches were brought, and the evening meal. Priest and philosopher lingered in ardent converse—that friction of mind upon mind which the Greek men of that day so loved and which with its sparkle and contagion of wit made the Greek look with contempt upon the mere written page.
Nikander, strolling dreamily to bed at midnight, stumbled upon the heap wrapped in its dark cloak, and lifted his daughter in his arms.
“Strange,” he murmured, “this continual disobedience. What can draw her hither—I wonder?”
The childish face sleeping upon his arm reminded him of his mother—a resemblance he had not noted before, and very tenderly he carried her to her bed where Baltè was waiting.
It was from a guest also that Theria heard the first whisper of The War—that steadily approaching war which was yet so far off that only the wise felt its dread.
Theria was older at this time and understood more of what she heard.