home-coming of the Greeks from Troy, and of all the disasters which
befell them on the way. Suddenly the singer paused in the midst of his
lay, for his fine ear had caught the sound of a sobbing sigh. Looking
round, he saw a tall and stately lady standing in the doorway which
led to the women's apartments at the back of the house. She was
closely veiled, but he instantly recognised the form of Penelope, his
beloved mistress.

"Phemius," said Penelope, in a tone of gentle reproach, "hast thou no
other lay to sing, but must needs recite this tale of woe, which fills
my soul with tears, by calling up the image of him for whom I sorrow
night and day?"

Phemius stood abashed, and ventured no reply; but Telemachus answered
for him. "Mother," he said, "blame not the sweet minstrel for his
song. The bard is not the author of the woes of which he sings, but
Zeus assigns to each his portion of good and ill; and thou must submit
to his ordinance, like many another lady who has lost her lord. Thou
hast thy province in the house, and I mine; thine is to govern thy
handmaids, and mine to take the lead where the men are gathered
together. And I say that the minstrel has chosen well."

There was a new note of command in the voice of Telemachus as he
uttered these words. Penelope heard it, and wondered what change had
come over her son; but a hundred bold eyes were gazing insolently at
her, and without another word she turned away, and ascended the steep
stairs which led to her bower. There she reclined on a couch, and her
tears flowed freely; for the song of Phemius had reopened the fountain
of her grief. Presently the sound of sobbing died away, and she drew
her breath gently in a sweet and placid sleep.