“I tell you that,” said Achilles—he had half stopped on the road. “Nobody hurt that good lady—she, your friend.”
“Yes, she is my friend. She was good to me.... She had a little girl once—like me—and some bad men hurt her.... I don’t think they stole her—” She pondered it a minute—“I don’t seem to understand—” she gave a little swift sigh. “But Mrs. Seabury is going to take her a long, long way off—and keep her always.”
Achilles nodded. “We help her do that,” he said. “They don’t hurt that good lady.”
His eyes were on the stars, and he lifted his face a little, breathing in the freshness. A swift star shot across the sky, falling to earth, and he pointed with eager finger. The child looked up and caught the falling flash, and they ran a little, as if to follow the leaping of their hearts. Then they went more slowly, and Achilles’s long finger traced the heavens for her—the Greek gods up there in their swinging orbits... the warm, August night of the world. Betty Harris had never known the stars like this. Safe from her window, she had seen them twinkle out. But here they swept about her—and the plain reached wide—and close, in the darkness, a hand held her safe and the long finger of Achilles touched the stars and drew them down for her... Orion there, marching with his mighty belt—and Mars red-gleaming. The long, white plume of the milky way, trailing soft glory on the sky—and the great bear to the north. The names filled her ears with a mighty din, Calliope, Venus, Uranus, Mercury, Mars—and the shining hosts of heaven passed by. Far beyond them, mysterious other worlds gleamed and glimmered—without name. And the heart of the child reached to them—and travelled through the vast arches of space, with her dusty little feet on the wide plain, and a hand holding hers, safe and warm down there in the darkness. Her eyes dropped from the stars and she trudged on.
When Achilles spoke again, he was telling her of Alcibiades and Yaxis and of the long days of waiting and the happiness their coming would bring—and of her father and mother, asleep at Idlewood—and the great house on the lake, ready always, night and day, for her coming—
“Do they know—?” she asked quickly, “that we are coming?”
“Nobody knows,” said Achilles, “except you and me.”
She laughed out, under the stars, and stood still. “We shall surprise them!” she said.
“Yes—come!” They pressed on. Far ahead, foolish little stars had glimmered out—close to the ground—the fingers of the city, stretching toward the plain.
Her glance ran to them. “We’re getting somewhere—?” she said swiftly. “We’re getting home!” Her hand squeezed his, swinging it a little.