“At least,” thought Theria, “when Dryas comes back, he will have Father to greet him instead of—instead——”
Then with tender happiness—or was it the bitterness of missing her one festival—she hid her face, weeping.
CHAPTER X
A BOY CALLED SOPHOCLES
One hot summer morning Melantho and her daughter were sitting in the upper room spinning. Or rather it was Melantho who was sitting. Theria was pacing to and fro at her task, stretching out the thread with free gesture, her fingers twisting, twisting like fluttering wings. Melantho noted how tall the girl had grown. “Her awkwardness, too, is passing,” she mused as Theria turned, sweeping the thin folds of her chiton against her supple limbs. So might Iris have looked, the slender goddess messenger, running to the divine threshold with news for the blessed gods.
But Melantho had no thought of goddesses.
“She will soon be old enough for a husband,” was Melantho’s thought. “I must speak to Nikander about it.”
Theria sighed and paced again.
“Theria,” said her mother, “if you would sit down you would not be so tired.”
“Tired,” spoke the girl, frowning, “Great Hermes, why should I be tired except from this eternal sitting? There’s no breath in this room.”