On ordinary days this would not have mattered, for the governess, Miss Stone, would have been with her, and they would have gone shopping or sightseeing until the hour was up and James returned.  But to-day Miss Stone, too, was ill, James had departed with the carriage, and Betty Harris found herself standing, music-roll in hand, at the door of Madame Lewandowska’s studio—­alone in the heart of Chicago for the first time in the twelve years of her life.

It had been a very carefully guarded life, with nurses and servants and instructors.  No little princess was ever more sternly and conscientiously reared than little Betty Harris, of Chicago.  For her tiny sake, herds of cattle were slaughtered every day; and all over the land hoofs and hides and by-products and soap-factories lifted themselves to heaven for Betty Harris.  If anything were to happen to her, the business of a dozen States would quiver to the core.

She tapped the marble floor softly with her foot and pondered.  She might sit here in the hall and wait for James—­a whole hour.  There was a bench by the wall.  She looked at it doubtfully....  It was not seemly that a princess should sit waiting for a servant—­not even in marble halls.  She glanced about her again.  There was probably a telephone somewhere—­perhaps on the ground floor.  She could telephone home and they would send another carriage.  Yes, that would be best.  She rang the elevator bell and descended in stately silence.  When she stepped out of the great door of the building she saw, straight before her, the sign she sought—­“Pay Station.”

But then something happened to Betty Harris.  The spirit of the spring day caught her and lifted her out of herself.  Men were hurrying by with light step.  Little children laughed as they ran.  Betty skipped a few steps and laughed softly with them....  She would walk home.  It was not far.  She had often walked as far in the country, and she knew the way quite well....  And when she looked up again, she stood in front of the glowing fruit-stall, and Achilles Alexandrakis was regarding her with deep, sad eyes.

Achilles had been dreaming down the street when the little figure came in sight.  His heart all day had been full of sadness—­for the spring in the air.  And all day Athens had haunted his steps—­the Athens of dreams.  Once when he had retired into the dark, cool shop, he brushed his sleeve across his eyes, and then he had stood looking down in surprise at something that glistened on its worn surface.

Betty Harris looked at him and smiled.  She had been so carefully brought up that she had not learned that some people were her inferiors and must not be smiled at.  She gave him the straight, sweet smile that those who had cared for her all her life loved so well.  Then she gave a little nod.  “I’m walking home,” she said.

Achilles leaned forward a little, almost holding his breath lest she float from him.  It was the very spirit of Athens—­democratic, cultured, naive.  He gave her the salute of his country.  She smiled again.  Then her eye fell on the tray of pomegranates near the edge of the stall—­round and pink.  She reached out a hand.  “I have never seen these,” she said, slowly.  “What are they?”