ovement pulled her simple white robe more tightly
through her girdle.

Heron's studio was as clean and as simple as his daughter's attire,
though it seemed larger than enough for the purpose it served, for only
a very small part of it was occupied by the artist, who sat as if in
exile behind the work-table on which his belongings were laid out: a set
of small instruments in a case, a tray filled with shells and bits
of onyx and other agates, a yellow ball of Cyrenian modeling-wax,
pumice-stone, bottles, boxes, and bowls.

Melissa had no sooner crossed the threshold, than the sculptor drew up
his broad shoulders and brawny person, and raised his hand to fling away
the slender stylus he had been using; however, he thought better of
it, and laid it carefully aside with the other tools. But this act of
self-control must have cost the hot-headed, powerful man a great effort;
for he shot a fierce look at the instrument which had had so narrow an
escape, and gave it a push of vexation with the back of his hand.

Then he turned towards the door, his sunburnt face looking surly enough,
in its frame of tangled gray hair and beard; and, as he waited for the
visitor whom Melissa was greeting outside, he tossed back his big head,
and threw out his broad, deep chest, as though preparing to wrestle.

Melissa presently returned, and the youth whose hand she still held was,
as might be seen in every feature, none other than the sculptor's son.
Both were dark-eyed, with noble and splendid heads, and in stature
perfectly equal; but while the son's countenance beamed with hearty
enjoyment, and seemed by its peculiar attractiveness to be made--and
to be accustomed--to charm men and women alike, his father's face was
expressive of disgust and misanthropy. It seemed, indeed, as though
the newcomer had roused his ire, for Heron answered his son's cheerful
greeting with no word but a reproachful "At last!" and paid no heed to
the hand the youth held out to him.

Alexander was no doubt inured to such a reception; he did not disturb
himself about the old man's ill-humor, but slapped him on the shoulder
with rough geniality, went up to the work-table with easy composure,
took up the vice which held the nearly finished gem, and, after holding
it to the light and examining it carefully, exclaimed: "Well done,
father! You have done nothing better than that for a long time."

"Poor stuff!" said his father. But his son laughed.

"If you will hav