picture,--the handsome youths, with their bronzed faces and strong, fine
limbs; the women with their gay dresses and bare feet, that seemed to have
been made for dancing; the vine-clad hill at the back, and, over it all,
the glow of the setting sun. In the centre of the dancers sat a boy,
playing upon a small lute with seven strings. To this accompaniment the
dancers chanted a song in praise of Dionysus, the god of the vine.
Gradually the music went faster and faster; and faster and faster the feet
of the dancers sped over the ground, until they were all out of breath,
and lay laughing on the grass.

Then, as the boy struck another chord, all laughter was hushed, and he
began to sing; it was a simple, plaintive little song, but there was a
magic in his voice which held the listeners spellbound. The last rays of
the setting sun played about his golden curls, and lit up his sweet,
childish face, as he sang:--

"Why should you grieve for me, my love,
When I am laid to rest?
Our lives are shaped by the gods above,
And they know best.
What though I stand on the farther shore,
Others have crossed the stream before--
Why weep in vain?
Life is but a drop in the deep,
Soon we wake from the last, lone sleep,
And meet again."

As the last note died away, a sigh came from the listeners; some of the
women turned away their faces, and the young men began to talk hastily, as
if to hide their emotion.