Mr. Achilles | Page 5

song of triumph, with war and sorrow and mystery running beneath the sound of joy. And the child, listening with grave, clear eyes, smiled a little, holding her breath. "I see it--I see it!" She half whispered the words.
Achilles barely looked at her. "You see--ah, yes--you see. But I--I have not words!" It was almost a cry. . . . "The air, so clear--like wine--and the pillars straight and high and big--but light--light-- reaching. . . ." His soul was among them, soaring high. Then it returned to earth and he remembered the child.
"And there is an olive-tree," he said, kindly, "and a well where Poseidon--"
"I've heard about the well and the olive-tree," said the child; "I don't care so much about them. But all the rest--" She drew a quick breath. "It is very beautiful. I knew it would be. I knew it would be!"
There was silence in the room.
"Thank you for telling me," said Betty Harris. "Now I must go." She slipped from the chair with a little sigh. She stood looking about the dim shop. "Now I must go," she repeated, wistfully.
Achilles moved a step toward the shelf. "Yes--but wait--I will show you." He reached up to the box and took it down lightly. "I show you." He was removing the cover.
The child leaned forward with shining eyes.
A smile came into the dark, grave face looking into the box. "Ah, he has blossomed--for you." He held it out to her.
She took it in shy fingers, bending to it. "It is beautiful," she said, softly. "Yes--beautiful!"
The dark wings, with shadings of gold and tender blue, lifted themselves a little, waiting.
The child looked up. "May I touch it?" she asked.
"Yes-- But why not?"
The dark head was bent close to hers, watching the wonderful wings.
Slowly Betty Harris put out a finger and stroked the wings.
They fluttered a little--opened wide and rose--in their first flutter of light.
"Oh!" It was a cry of delight from the child.
The great creature had settled on the bunch of bananas and hung swaying. The gold and blue wings opened and closed slowly.
Achilles drew near and put out a finger.
The butterfly was on it.
He held it toward her, smiling gently, and she reached up, her very breath on tiptoe. A little smile curved her lips, quick and wondering, as the transfer was made, thread by thread, till the gorgeous thing rested on her own palm.
She looked up. "What shall I do with it?" It was a shining whisper.
Achilles's eyes sought the door.
They moved toward it slowly, light as breath.
In the open doorway they paused. Above the tall buildings the grey rim of sky lifted itself. The child looked up to it. Her eyes returned to Achilles.
He nodded gravely.
She raised her hand with a little "p-f-f"--it was half a quick laugh and half a sigh.
The wings fluttered free, and rose and faltered, and rose again--high and higher, between the dark walls--up to the sky, into the grey--and through.
The eyes that had followed it came back to earth. They looked at each other and smiled gravely--two children who had seen a happy thing.
The child stood still with half-lifted hand. . . . A carriage drove quickly into the street. The little hand was lifted higher. It was a regal gesture--the return of the princess to earth.
James touched his hat--a look of dismay and relief battling in his face as he turned the horses sharply to the right. They paused in front of the stall, their hoofs beating dainty time to the coursing of their blood.
Achilles eyed them lovingly. The spirit of Athens dwelt in their arching necks.
He opened the door for the child with the quiet face and shining eyes. Gravely he salaamed as she entered the carriage.
Through the open window she held out a tiny hand. "I hope you will come and see me," she said.
"Yes, I come," said Achilles, simply. "I like to come."
James dropped a waiting eye.
"Home, James."
The horses sprang away. Achilles Alexandrakis, bareheaded in the spring sunshine, watched the carriage till it was out of sight. Then he turned once more to the stall and rearranged the fruit. The swift fingers laughed a little as they worked, and the eyes of Achilles were filled with light.

III
BETTY'S MOTHER HEARS A STORY
"Mother-dear!" It was the voice of Betty Harris--eager, triumphant, with a little laugh running through it. "Mother-dear!"
"Yes--Betty--" The woman seated at the dark mahogany desk looked up, a little line between her eyes. "You have come, child?" It was half a caress. She put out an absent hand, drawing the child toward her while she finished her note.
The child stood by gravely, looking with shining eyes at the face bending above the paper. It was a handsome face with clear, hard lines --the reddish hair brushed up conventionally from the temples, and the skin a little