gay-hued butterfly that a tired child
pursues in vain. And each day, as the race ended, another man paid the
price of his defeat.

Daily, amongst those who looked on, stood her cousin Milanion. He
would fain have hated Atalanta for her ruthlessness and her joyousness
as he saw his friends die for her sake, yet daily her beauty, her
purity, and her gallant unconsciousness took a firmer hold upon his
heart. To himself he vowed that he would win Atalanta, but not without
help from the gods was this possible. Therefore he sought Aphrodite
herself and asked her aid.

Milanion was a beautiful youth, and to Aphrodite, who loved beauty, he
pled his cause as he told her how Atalanta had become to him more than
life, so that he had ceased to pity the youths, his friends, who had
died for love of her. The goddess smiled upon him with gentle
sympathy.

In the garden of her temple grew a tree with branches and twigs of
gold, and leaves as yellow as the little leaves of the silver birch
when the autumn sun kisses them as it sets. On this tree grew golden
apples, and Aphrodite plucked three of them and gave them to the youth
who had not feared to ask her to aid him to win the maid he loved.
How he was to use the apples she then told him, and, well content,
Milanion returned home.

Next day he spoke to Atalanta.

"So far has victory been thine, Fairest on earth," he said, "but so
far have thy little winged white feet had only the heavy-footed
laggards to outrun. Wilt have me run a race with thee? for assuredly I
shall win thee for my own."

And Milanion looked into the eyes of Atalanta with a smile as gay and
fearless as that with which a hero is wont to look in the eyes of his
fellow.

Look for look did the virgin huntress give him.

Then her cheeks grew red, as though the rosy-fingered dawn had touched
them, and the dawning of love came into her heart.

Even Meleager was not quite so goodly a youth as this. Not even
Meleager had been so wholly fearless.

"Thou art tempted by the deathless gods," she said, but her long
lashes drooped on her cheek as she spoke. "I pity you, Milanion, for
when thou dost race with me, the goal is assuredly the meadows of
asphodel near where sit Pluto and Persephone on their gloomy thrones."

But Milanion said, "I am ready, Atalanta. Wilt race with me now?" And
steadily he looked in her eyes until again they fell as though at last
they had found a conqueror.

Like two swallows that skim a