Heron regarded this bird as a friend who understood him, and, like him, remembered the never-to-be-forsaken dead.  For three years had the gem cutter been a widower, and he still thought more constantly and fondly of his lost wife than of the children she had left him.  Heron scratched the bird’s knowing little head, saying in a tone which betrayed his pity both for himself and his pet “Yes, old fellow, you would rather have a soft white finger to stroke you down.  I can hear her now, when she would call you ‘sweet little pet,’ or ‘dear little creature.’  We shall neither of us ever hear such gentle, loving words again.  Do you remember how she would look up with her dear sweet face—­and was it not a lovely face?—­when you called her by her name ‘Olympias’?  How many a time have her rosy lips blown up your feathers, and cried, ’Well done, little fellow! ’—­Ay, and she would say ‘Well done’ to me too, when I had finished a piece of work well.  Ah, and what an eye she had, particularly for art!  But now well, the children give me a good word too, now that her lips are silent!”

“Olympias!” cried the bird loudly and articulately, and the clouds that shadowed the gem-cutter’s brow lifted a little, as with an affectionate smile he went on: 

“Yes, yes; you would be glad, too, to have her back again.  You call her now, as I did yesterday, standing by her grave—­and she sends you her love.

“Do you hear, little one?  Peck away at the old man’s finger; he knows you mean it kindly, and it does not hurt.  I was all alone out there, and Selene looked down on us in silence.  There was rioting and shouting all round, but I could hear the voice of our dead.  She was very near me, and her sad soul showed me that she still cared for me.  I had taken a jar of our best wine of Byblos under my cloak; as soon as I had poured oil on her gravestone and shed some of the noble liquor, the earth drank it up as though it were thirsty.  Not a drop was left.  Yes, little fellow, she accepted the gift; and when I fell on my knees to meditate on her, she vouchsafed replies to many of my questions.

“We talked together as we used—­you know.  And we remembered you, too; I gave you her love.

“You understand me, little fellow, don’t you?  And, I tell you, better times are coming now.”

He turned from the bird with a sharp movement of annoyance, for the slave-woman came in with the bowl of barley-porridge.

“You!” exclaimed Heron, in surprise.  “Where is Melissa?”

“She will come presently,” said the old woman, in a low and doubtful tone.

“Oh, thanks for the oracle!” said the artist, ironically.

“How you mock at a body!” said the old woman.  “I meant—­But eat first —­eat.  Anger and grief are ill food for an empty stomach.”

Heron sat down to the table and began to eat his porridge, but he presently tossed away the spoon, exclaiming: