At this moment the starling called, in a clear, inviting tone, “Olympias!” and this cheered him, reminding him of the happy hour he had passed at his wife’s grave and the good augury he had had there.  The belief in a better time at hand, of which he had spoken to the bird, again took possession of his sanguine soul; and, fully persuaded that Melissa was detained in her own room or elsewhere by some trifling matter, he went to the window and shouted her name; for hers, too, opened on to the garden.

And it seemed as though the dear, obedient girl had come at his bidding, for, as he turned back into the room again, Melissa was standing in the open door.

After the pretty Greek greeting, “Joy be with you,” which she faintly answered, he asked her, as fractiously as though he had spent hours of anxiety, where she had been so long.  But he was suddenly silent, for he was astonished to see that she had not come from her room, but, as her dress betrayed, from some long expedition.  Her appearance, too, had none of the exquisite neatness which it usually displayed; and then—­what a state she was in!  Whence had she come so early in the day?

The girl took off the kerchief that covered her head, and with a faint groan pushed her tangled hair off her temples, and her bosom heaved as she panted out in a weary voice:  “Here I am!  But O, father, what a night I have spent!”

Heron could not for a minute or two find words to answer her.

What had happened to the girl?  What could it be which made her seem so strange and unlike her self?  He gazed at her, speechless, and alarmed by a hundred fearful suspicions.  He felt as a mother might who has kissed her child’s fresh, healthy lips at night, and in the morning finds them burning with fever.

Melissa had never been ill from the day of her birth; since she had donned the dress of a full-grown maiden she had never altered; day after day and at all hours she had been the same in her quiet, useful, patient way, always thinking of her brothers, and caring for him rather than for herself.

It had never entered into his head to suppose that she could alter; and now, instead of the gentle, contented face with faintly rosy cheeks, he saw a pallid countenance and quivering lips.  What mysterious fire had this night kindled in those calm eyes, which Alexander was fond of comparing to those of a gazelle?  They were sunk, and the dark shadows that encircled them were a shock to his artistic eye.  These were the eyes of a girl who had raved like a maenad the night through.  Had she not slept in her quiet little room; had she been rushing with Alexander in the wild Bacchic rout; or had something dreadful happened to his son?

Nothing could have been so great a relief to him as to rave and rage as was his wont, and he felt strongly prompted to do so; but there was something in her which moved him to pity or shyness, he knew not which, and kept him quiet.  He silently followed her with his eyes while she folded her mantle and kerchief in her orderly way, and hastily gathered together the stray, curly locks of her hair, smoothed them, and bound them round her head.