“Fifty gold pieces!” cried Karnis clasping his hands.  “That brightens up the dull grey of existence.  Fifty, then, are certain.  If we sing six times that makes a talent—­[estimated in 1880 at $1100]—­and that will buy back our old vineyard at Leontium.  I will repair the old Odeum—­they have made a cowhouse of it—­and when we sing there the monks may come and listen!  You laugh?  But you are simpletons—­I should like to see who will forbid my singing on my own land and in my own country.  A talent of gold!

“It is quite enough to pay on account, and I will not agree to any bargain that will not give me the field-slaves and cattle.  Castles in the air, do you say?  But just listen to me:  We are sure you see of a hundred gold pieces at least. . .”  He had raised his voice in his eagerness and while he spoke the curtains had been softly opened, and the dull glimmer of the lamp which stood in front of Orpheus fell on a head which was charming in spite of its disorder.  A quantity of loose fair hair curled in papers stuck up all over the round head and fell over the forehead, the eyes were tired and still half shut, but the little mouth was wide awake and laughing with the frank amusement of light-hearted youth.

Karnis, without noticing the listener, had gone on with his visionary hopes of regaining his estates by his next earnings, but at this point the young girl, holding the curtain in her right hand, stretched out her plump left arm and begged in a humble whine: 

“Good father Karnis, give me a little of your wealth; five poor little drachmae!”

The old man started; but he instantly recovered himself and answered good-naturedly enough: 

“Go back to bed, you little hussy.  You ought to be asleep instead of listening there!”

“Asleep?” said the girl.  “While you are shouting like an orator against the wind!  Five drachmae, father.  I stick to that.  A new ribband for me will cost one, and the same for Agne, two.  Two I will spend on wine for us all, and that makes the five.”

“That makes four—­you are a great arithmetician to be sure!”

“Four?” said Dada, as much amazed as though the moon had fallen.  “If only I had a counting-frame.  No, father, five I tell you—­it is five.”

“No, child, four; and you shall have four,” replied her father.  “Plutus is at the door and to-morrow morning you shall both have garlands.”

“Yes, of violets, ivy and roses,” added Dame Herse.  “Is Agne asleep?”

“As sound as the dead.  She always sleeps soundly unless she lies wide awake all the night through.  But we were both so tired—­and I am still.  It is a comfort to yawn.  Do you see how I am sitting?”

“On the clothes-chest?” said Herse.

“Yes, and the curtain is not a strong back to the seat.  Fortunately if I fall asleep I shall drop forwards, not backwards.”

“But there is a bed for each of you,” said the mother, and giving the girl a gentle push she followed her into the sleeping-alcove.  In a few minutes she came out again.