her life for you? Yet you loved her, I suppose?"

"Thyone!" Hermon cried, deeply wounded, holding out his right hand as if
in defence. "Well, well!" said the matron. "I know that you revere her
memory. But that alone is not sufficient. On memorial festivals, and
especially on the birthdays, a mother's soul needs a prayer and a gift
from the son, a wreath, a fillet, fragrant ointment, a piece of honey, a
cup of wine or milk--all these things even the poor man spares from his
penury--yet a warm prayer, in pure remembrance and love, would suffice
to rob the wrath of Nemesis, which the enraged barbarian girl let loose
upon you, of its power. Only your mother, Hermon, the soul of the noble
woman who bore you, can restore to you what you have lost. Appeal for
aid to her, son of Erigone, and she will yet make everything right."

Bending quickly over the artist as she spoke, she kissed his brow and
moved steadily away, though he called her name with yearning entreaty.

A short time after, the steward Gras led Hermon to his cabin, and while
undressing him reported that a messenger from Pelusium had announced
that the commandant Philippus was coming to Tennis the next morning,
before the market place filled, to take his wife with him to Alexandria,
where he was going by the King's command.

Hermon only half listened, and then ordered the Bithynian to leave him.

After he had reclined on the couch a short time, he softly called the
names of the steward, Thyone, and Daphne. As he received no answer, and
thus learned that he was alone, he rose, drew himself up to his full
height, gazed heavenward with his bandaged eyes, stretched both hands
toward the ceiling of the low cabin, and obeyed his friend's bidding.

Thoroughly convinced that he was doing right, and ashamed of having
so long neglected what the duty of a son commanded, he implored his
mother's soul for forgiveness.

While doing so he again found that the figure which he recalled to his
memory appeared before him with marvellous distinctness. Never had she
been so near him since, when a boy of seven, she clasped him for the
last time to her heart. She tenderly held out her arms to him, and he
rushed into her embrace, shouting exultantly while she hugged and kissed
him. Every pet name which he had once been so glad to hear, and during
recent years had forgotten, again fell from her lips. As had often
happened in days long past, he again saw his mother crown him for a
fe