A world that had risen to great heights of emotion in this valley was
dead, but that did not sadden him. He found it impossible to be sad in
Olympia, because his own life was so happy.

A delicious egoism, the birthright of his youth, had him safe in its
grasp. But sometimes, when Rosamund was alone in the room of the Hermes,
learning her lesson, and he was among the ruins, or walking above the
buried Stadium where the flocks were at pasture, he recalled the great
contests of the Athletes of ancient Greece; the foot-races which were
the original competitions at the games, the races in armor, the long
jumps, the wrestling matches, the discus and dart-throwing, the boxing
and the brutal _pankration_. And he remembered that at the Olympic
Games there were races for boys, for quite young boys. A boy had won at
Olympia who was only twelve years old. When Dion recalled that fact one
golden afternoon, it seemed to him that perhaps his lesson was to be
learnt among the feeding sheep in the valley, rather even than on the
hill where the Hermes dwelt. The father surely shapes one part of the
sacred clay of youth, while on the other part, with a greater softness,
a perhaps subtler care, the mother works.

He would try to make his boy sturdy and strong and courageous, swift
to the race of life; he would train his boy to be a victor, to be a boy
champion among other boys. Her son must not fail to win the crown of
wild olive. And when he was a man----! But at that point in his dreams
of the future Dion always pulled up. He could not see Rosamund as the
mother of a man, could not see Rosamund old. She would, of course, be
beautiful in old age, with a perhaps more spiritual beauty than she had
even now. He shut his eyes, tried to imagine her, to see her before him
with snow-white hair, a face perhaps etherealized by knowledge of life
and suffering; once he even called up the most perfect picture of old
age he knew of--the portrait of Whistler's mother, calm, dignified,
gentle, at peace, with folded hands; but his efforts were in vain; he
simply could not see his Rosamund old. And so, because of that, he could
only see their child as a very young boy, wearing a boy's crown of wild
olive, such as had once been won by the boy of twelve in the games at
Olympia.

The last day of their visit to the green wilds and the hilltops dawned,
still, cloudless and very hot. There was a light haze over Zante, and
the great plain held a look of sle