am! It's _you_!"

And Achilles laughed out. "We're going home," he said, "when you're
rested a little."

"But I'm rested _now_!" she cried. "Come!" She sprang to her feet, and
they journeyed again--through the night. About them, the plain breathed
deep sleeping power--and the long road stretched from the west to the
east and brought them home.

Each step, the city lights grew larger, and sparkled more, and spread
apart farther, and a low rumble came creeping on the plain--jarring with
swift jolts--the clang of cars and lifting life... and, in the distance,
a line of light ran fire swiftly on the air, and darted, red and green,
and trailed again in fire... and Achilles's finger pointed to it. "That
fire will take us home," he said.

The child's eye followed the flashing cars--and she smiled out. The
first light of the city's rim touched her face.

"Just a little farther!" said Achilles.

"But I am not tired!" said the child, and she ran a little, beside him,
on the stone pavement, her small shoes clumping happily.

Achilles lifted a swift hand to a waiting car. The car clanged its
gone--impatient. A big conductor reached down his hand to the child.
The bell clanged again and they were off--"Clang-clang, clear the track!
Betty Harris is going home--This is the people's carriage--Going home!
Going home! Clear the track--clang-clang!" Through the blinking city
streets they rode. Safe among the friendly houses, and the shops and the
stores, and the people sleeping behind their blinds--all the people
who had loved the child--and scanned the paper for her, every day--and
asked, "Is Betty Harris found?"... Going home! Going home!... They would
waken in the morning and read the news and shout across the way--"She's
been found--yes--a Greek! He brought her home! Thank God. She's found!"

And little Betty Harris, leaning against the great shoulder beside
her, nodded in the car, and dreamed little dreams and looked about her
hazily.

The conductor came and stood in front of them with extended hand, and
rang the fares, and cast an indifferent, kindly glance at the Greek and
his child travelling by night.... He did not guess the "scoop" that his
two little nickels rang out. The child with roughened hair and clumsy,
hanging shoes, was nothing to him--nor to the policeman that boarded
the car at the next corner and ran his eye down its empty length to
the Greek, sitting erect--with the child sleeping beside him--her dark,