Atlana, who had raised until she was sitting erect, burst into tears, weeping as if she could never cease. Pyrrha, as she supported her, looked around for Deucalion; and beheld him standing near the door, smiling. He signed that it was well. So she began to dry the queen’s tears, pausing at times to embrace her, upon perceiving that such pleased her.
Still the life-giving tears ran on, sobs coming heart-rendingly, so that Deucalion looked upward to murmur:
“Thanks, ye Powers! And let the stream run long and fast. Let it be the beginning of life to the desert place. May that parched field, her mind, be so well watered that new flowers of hope may bloom again, and shed their fragrance upon her sad Atlanteans. Ah, poor queen, poor people!”
Long was it before the tears were spent. Then Atlana put out her hand for Pyrrha’s. “I would kiss thee,” she murmured.
Pyrrha leaned over. When Atlana had kissed her cheek, she pleaded, “Thou wilt not leave me?”
“Dear Queen, from now, am I thy sister, nurse.”
“Ever wilt thou be my sister. But not for long my nurse. Already, I feel new life. And thou hast caused it—thou—sweet spirit—thou—”
“Pyrrha, call me Pyrrha.”
“Thou—sweet Pyrrha—thou mother of Æole and Hellen.” So lovingly lingered she over these names that Pyrrha kissed her again and again, while Atlana sighed, content. Afterward, she asked as a child might, “Am I to know rest again? Long is it since I have felt such ease?. I could sleep. Should I, dear Pyrrha, thou wilt not loose my hand?”
“Nay, dear Queen. I will but hold it closer.”