egs and my
hoofs do in the little orchard house, and how should I sit in my
armchair?"

Halcyone pealed with merry laughter; her laughs came so rarely and were
like golden bells. The comic side of the picture enchanted her.

"Of course it would only do if we lived in a cave, as the real Cheiron
did," she admitted. "I was silly, was not I?"

"Yes," said Mr. Carlyon, "but I don't think I mind your being so--it is
nice to laugh."

She slipped her thin little hand into his for a moment, and caught hold
of one of his fingers.

"I am so glad you understand that," she said. "How good it is to laugh!
That is what the birds sing to me, it is no use ever to be sad, because
it draws evil and fear to yourself, and even in the winter one must know
there is always the beautiful spring soon coming. Don't you think God is
full of love for this world?"

"I am sure he is."

"The Aunts' God isn't a very kind person," she went on. "But I expect,
since you know about the Greeks, yours and mine are the same."

"Probably," said Cheiron.

Then, being assured on this point, Halcyone felt she could almost
entrust him with her greatest secret.

"Do you know," she said, in the gravest voice, "I will tell you
something. I have a goddess, too. I found her in the secret staircase.
She is broken, even her nose a little, but she is supremely beautiful.
It is just her head I have got, and I pretend she is my mother
sometimes, really come back to me again. We have long talks. Some day I
will show her to you. I have to keep her hidden, because Aunt Ginevra
cannot bear rubbish about, and as she is broken she would want to have
her thrown away."

"I shall be delighted to make her acquaintance. What do you call her?"

"That is just it," said Halcyone. "When I first found her it seemed to
me I must call her Pallas Athene, because of that noble lady in
Perseus--but as I looked and looked I knew she was not that; it seems
she cannot be anything else but just Love--her eyes are so tender, she
has many moods, and they are not often the same--but no matter how she
looks you feel all the time just love, love, love--so I have not named
her yet. You remember when Orpheus took his lyre and sang after Cheiron
had finished his song--it was of Chaos and the making of the world, and
how all things had sprung from Love--who could not live alone in the
Abyss. So I know that is she--just Love."

"Aphrodite," said Cheiron.

"It is a pretty name. If that is