tood her speech. She bent tenderly over one tall plant and touched
its golden crest. Diogenes had passed from her thoughts as she stooped
and made the flower her confidant. "I wonder when the hunter will come
again."

She turned and stretched out her hands in pretty appeal towards the
woodland.

"Dear forest beasts," she whispered, "forgive me, for I think I shall
rejoice at his coming."

She drew her hand across her forehead, as if she sought to banish
distracting thoughts, thoughts that had no place before in the simple
order of her life. Then, as one who seeks distraction in the fulfilment
of an appointed task, she moved to take the great sword and dedicate
herself to its service. Holding it surely and firmly in her strong
grasp, she carried it to where the grindstone stood, and carefully laid
the edge of the blade to the shoulder of the stone wheel, while she
worked the treadle with her foot. As the wheel spun and the sword hissed
on the stone, she sang to herself the old, old sword-song that her
father had taught her, the song that men who made swords had sung in
some form or other from the dawn of war:

"Out of the red earth
The sword of sharpness;
Blue as the moonlight,
Bright as the lightning."

The song wavered on her lips to the merest thread of music and then
faded into silence. Her body was still busy with the sword, but her mind
had drifted away from the place where she was to the place where she had
been a week ago, to that cool, green hollow in the wood where she had
met the tired hunter. He came upon her through the cracking brush,
through the parting leaves; he stood before her, the sunlight touching
him through the branches, with a smile on his young, fair face; he
saluted her with simplicity and grace, and as she gazed at him dim
legends of Greek heroes crowded upon her and she could well have
believed that she beheld Perseus the dragon-slayer or Theseus the
redresser of mortal wrongs. Their speech had been scanty, but it still
sounded sweet to her ears. He had said he was thirsty, and she gave him
to drink from a familiar spring; he had asked for guidance, and she had
shown him the way out of the forest.

That was all, or almost all. He had said he would come again; and, of
course, he would come again. In her simple philosophy a given word was
given, a promise ever redeemed. There was no trouble in her thought of
him; she had been glad to meet this wonderful, joyous being