had
puzzled him once, and if at first he had thought cynically of her, as he
thought of most pretty women he met, love had washed away those thoughts
many days ago: and in this moment when she turned to him for help he
wondered how it was that he had ever been puzzled. He saw clearly now
into the heart of the mystery, and it was a heart of pure rose and
gold, like the heart of an altar fire.

"Wait a minute," he said, "before I answer that, and let me ask _you_ a
question. Did you ever hear the story or see the play of Galatea?"

"No. Not that I remember. What has it to do with me?"

"I'll tell you about her, and then maybe you'll see. The story is that a
Greek sculptor made a beautiful statue which he worshipped so
desperately that the gods turned it into a living girl. Well, you can
imagine just how much that girl knew about life, can't you? She looked
grown up, and was dressed like other young women of her day, but any
kitten with its eyes open was better equipped for business than she, for
kittens have claws and Galatea hadn't. Naturally she made some queer
mistakes, and because a rather beastly world was slow to understand
perfect innocence--the pre-serpentine innocence of Eve, so to speak--a
lot of injustice was done to the poor little statue come alive. Some of
the people wouldn't believe that she'd ever been a statue at all."

"I see!" exclaimed Mary, sharply. Then she was silent for a moment,
thinking; but at last she put a sudden question: "What happened to
Galatea?"

"Oh, the poor girl was so disgusted with the world that she went back to
being a statue again eventually. I think myself it was rather weak of
her, and that if she'd waited a bit she might have done better."

"I'm not sure," Mary said, slowly. "To-night I feel as if there was
_nothing_ better--than going back and being a statue."

"You won't feel like that to-morrow. The sun brings courage. I know--by
experience. You think, Miss Grant, for some reason or other--I don't
even want you to tell me what, unless it would do you good to tell--that
you're down in the depths. But you're not. You never can be. Where you
are it will always be light, really."

"What makes you believe I am good, if others don't believe it?" She
turned on him with the question, the moon carving her features in marble
purity, as if Galatea were already freezing again into the coldness of a
statue. The whole effect of her, in the long white cloak with its hood
pulled ov