The next day Phidias came again, and took his place at the image-maker's bench, just as if he were always accustomed to sit there. Aristæus, who was better, watched him curiously, but asked no questions.
But Iris said to him: "My father and I talk of you, and wonder who you are."
Phidias laughed.
"Perhaps I shall tell you some day," he answered. "There, child, what do you think of that little vase? When it is baked it will be a pretty thing."
As the days went on, the image-maker recovered his strength; and meanwhile Phidias had filled the little shop with dainty-wrought images and graceful vases, such as had never been seen there before.
One evening, when Aristæus was leaning against Iris, and admiring the stranger's work, the door opened and Phidias came in.
"What, friend," he said cheerily, "you are better to-night I see!"
"Last night," said Aristæus, "I dreamt that the friend who held out a brother's hand to me and helped me in my trouble was the great Phidias himself. It did not seem wonderful to me, for only the great do such things as you have done for me. You must be great."
"I do not know about that," said the sculptor, smiling, "and after all, I have not done so much for you. I have only helped a brother-workman: for I am an image-maker too—and my name is Phidias."
Then Aristæus bent down and reverently kissed the great sculptor's hands.