“Oh, I won’t make pwomises!” said Diana.  “Why should I make pwomises about your bow and arrows?  I’ll help you to make ’em.  Do let me, Apollo!”

Apollo seemed suddenly smitten with the idea.  After all, it would be fine to make a bow and arrow, and to try to shoot things in the wood.  How lovely it would be if he succeeded in shooting a rabbit; he would certainly have a try.  Accordingly, he rose and climbed into the lower branches of an elm tree, and cut down a long, smooth young bough, and, descending again to the ground, began to peel the bark off.  When this was done, Diana produced some more string out of her pocket, and a very creditable bow was the result.

“Now, the arrow,” said the little girl.

“We must get some strong wood for that,” said Apollo, “something that won’t split.  I’ll just walk about and look around me.”  He did so, and soon found a stick suitable for his purpose.  He sat down again and began whittling away.  Very soon a fairly sharp arrow was the result.  “Of course it ought to be tipped,” said Apollo, “but we have nothing to tip it with.  It is lucky that the wood is hard, and so it is really sharp.  Now, shall I have a few shots with it?”

“Please do, Apollo.  Oh, how ’licious it all is!  Don’t you feel just as if you was a heathen god?”

“I wish I were,” said Apollo, throwing back his head.  “Oh, Di, how hot it is in the wood!  What wouldn’t I give to be back in the dear old garden again?”

“Maybe we’ll go soon,” said Diana; “maybe they won’t want to keep us if—­” But here she shut up her little mouth firmly.

Apollo was too much excited about the bow and arrows to think of Diana’s remarks.  He stood up and began to practice shooting.

“You is doing it beautiful,” said Diana, applauding his extremely poor efforts.  “Now, twy again.  Think that you has lived long, long ago, and that you is shotting things for our dinner.”

The arrow went wide of the mark, the arrow went everywhere but where it ought to.  Diana clapped and laughed and shouted, and Apollo thought himself the finest archer in the world.

“Now, let me have a teeny turn,” she said.

“To be sure I will,” he replied good-naturedly.  He showed her how to place the arrow, and she made one or two valiant attempts to send it flying through the wood.

“It is hard,” she panted; “the arrow don’t seem even to make the least little pwick.  Now, I want to shoot stwaight at that oak twee, or would you mind awfu’, Apollo, if I was to shoot at you?”

“All right,” replied Apollo; “you may aim at my hand, if you like.”  He walked about a dozen yards away and held up his hand.

Diana made valiant efforts, and grew crimson in the face, but the arrow still went wide of the mark.

CHAPTER XI.

JOG’APHY.