widened view, then sprang, with the lightness of a kitten, to the
other side. There was a skurry of frightened sheep, and then a
silence.

She knew that she was sitting on the grass, and that her left
wrist pained. Some one was coming toward her.

"Are you hurt?" asked Apollo anxiously.

"Not at all," she answered, continuing to sit on the grass.

"lf you were hurt, where would it be?"

"In my wrist," said the girl, with a little groan.

The questioner kneeled beside her, and Daphne gave a start of
surprise that was touched with fear.

"It isn't you?" she stammered. "You aren't the shepherd?"

A sheepskin coat disguised him. The rough hat was of soft
drooping felt, like that of any shepherd watching on the hills,
and in his hand he held a crook. An anxious mother-sheep was
sniffing eagerly at his pockets, remembering gifts of
salt.

"Apollo was a shepherd," said Daphne slowly, with wonder in her
face. "He kept the flocks of King Admetus."

"You seem to be well read in the classical dictionary," remarked