w I was stolen.
Perhaps he will send me home."

Now the painting was almost done. As he worked, a thousand pictures were
flashing through his mind. He saw his beloved old home in lovely Athens.
He felt his father's hand on his, teaching him to paint. He gazed again
at the Parthenon, more beautiful than a dream. Then he saw himself
playing on the fishing boat on that terrible holiday. He saw the pirate
ship sail swiftly from behind a rocky point and pounce upon them. He saw
himself and his friends dragged aboard. He felt the tight rope on his
wrists as they bound him and threw him under the deck. He saw himself
standing here in the market place of Pompeii. He heard himself sold for
a slave. At that thought he threw down his brush and groaned.

But soon he grew calmer. Perhaps the sweet drip of the fountain cooled
his hot thoughts. Perhaps the soft touch of the sun soothed his heart.
He took up his brushes again and set to work.

"The last figure shall be the most beautiful of all," he said to
himself. "It is my own god, Apollo."

So he worked tenderly on the face. With a few little strokes he made the
mouth smile kindly. He made the blue eyes deep and gentle. He lifted the
golden curls with a little breeze from Olympos. The god's smile cheered
him. The beautiful colors filled his mind. He forgot his sorrows. He
forgot everything but his picture. Minute by minute it grew under his
moving brush. He smiled into the god's eyes.

Meantime a great noise arose in the house. There were cries of fear.
There was running of feet.

"A great cloud!" "Earthquake!" "Fire and hail!" "Smoke from hell!" "The
end of the world!" "Run! Run!"

And men and women, all slaves, ran screaming through the house and out
of the front door. But the painter only half heard the cries. His ears,
his eyes, his thoughts were full of Apollo.

For a little the house was still. Only the fountain and the shadows and
the artist's brush moved there. Then came a great noise as though the
sky had split open. The low, sturdy house trembled. Ariston's brush was
shaken and blotted Apollo's eye. Then there was a clattering on the
cement floor as of a million arrows. Ariston ran into the court. From
the heavens showered a hail of gray, soft little pebbles like beans.
They burned his upturned face. They stung his bare arms. He gave a cry
and ran back under the porch roof. Then he heard a shrill call above all
the clattering. It came from the far end of the hous