Heron had listened eagerly to his son’s rhapsody, but he now cast a timid glance at the table where the wax and tools lay, pushed the rough hair from his brow, and broke in with a bitter laugh:  “My dream, do you say—­ my dream?  As if I did not know too well that I am no longer the man to create an Atlas!  As if I did not feel, without your words, that my strength for it is a thing of the past!”

“Nay, father,” exclaimed the painter.  “Is it right to cast away the sword before the battle?  And even if you did not succeed—­”

“You would be all the better pleased,” the sculptor put in.  “What surer way could there be to teach the old simpleton, once for all, that the time when he could do great work is over and gone?”

“That is unjust, father; that is unworthy of you,” the young man interrupted in great excitement; but his father went on, raising his voice; “Silence, boy!  One thing at any rate is left to me, as you know—­ my keen eyes; and they did not fail me when you two looked at each other as the starling cried, ‘My strength!’ Ay, the bird is in the right when he bewails what was once so great and is now a mere laughing-stock.  But you—­you ought to reverence the man to whom you owe your existence and all you know; you allow yourself to shrug your shoulders over your own father’s humbler art, since your first pictures were fairly successful.  —­How puffed up he is, since, by my devoted care, he has been a painter!  How he looks down on the poor wretch who, by the pinch of necessity, has come down from being a sculptor of the highest promise to being a mere gem-cutter!  In the depths of your soul—­and I know it—­you regard my laborious art as half a handicraft.  Well, perhaps it deserves no better name; but that you—­both of you—­should make common cause with a bird, and mock the sacred fire which still burns in an old man, and moves him to serve true and noble art and to mold something great—­an Atlas such as the world has never seen on a heroic scale; that—­”

He covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud.  And the strong man’s passionate grief cut his children to the heart, though, since their mother’s death, their father’s rage and discontent had many a time ere now broken down into childish lamentation.

To-day no doubt the old man was in worse spirits than usual, for it was the day of the Nekysia—­the feast of the dead kept every autumn; and he had that morning visited his wife’s grave, accompanied by his daughter, and had anointed the tombstone and decked it with flowers.  The young people tried to comfort him; and when at last he was more composed and had dried his tears, he said, in so melancholy and subdued a tone that the angry blusterer was scarcely recognizable:  “There—­leave me alone; it will soon be over.  I will finish this gem to-morrow, and then I must do the Serapis I promised Theophilus, the high-priest.  Nothing can come of the Atlas.  Perhaps you meant it in all sincerity,