"Are you hurt?" asked Apollo anxiously.
"Not at all," she answered, continuing to sit on the grass.
"If you were hurt, where would it be?"
"In my wrist," said the girl, with a little groan.
The questioner kneeled beside her, and Daphne gave a start of surprise that was touched with fear.
"It isn't you?" she stammered. "You aren't the shepherd?"
A sheepskin coat disguised him. The rough hat was of soft drooping felt, like that of any shepherd watching on the hills, and in his hand he held a crook. An anxious mother-sheep was sniffing eagerly at his pockets, remembering gifts of salt.
"Apollo was a shepherd," said Daphne slowly, with wonder in her face. "He kept the flocks of King Admetus."
"You seem to be well read in the classical dictionary," remarked the stranger, with twinkling eyes. "You have them in America then?"
He was examining her wrist with practiced fingers, touching it firmly here and there.