She nodded. "I know. I study it; but what is it--the word?"

"The word!--Ah, yes, it is--How you say? You shall see."

He reached out a hand to the box. But the child stopped him. A quick
thought had come to her. "You have been in Athens, haven't you? I want
to ask you something, please."

The hand dropped from the box. The man turned about, waiting. If heaven
were to open to him now--!

"I've always wanted to see a Greek man," said the child, slowly, "a real
Greek man. I've wanted to ask him something he would know about.
Have you ever seen the Parthenon?" She put the question with quaint
seriousness.

A light came into the eyes of Achilles Alexandrakis. It flooded the
room.

"You ask me--the Parthenon?" he said, solemnly. "You wish me--tell
that?" It was wistful--almost a cry of longing.

Betty Harris nodded practically. "I've always wanted to know about
it--the Parthenon. They tell you how long it is, and how wide, and what
it is made of, and who began it, and who finished it, and who
destroyed it, but they never, never"--she raised her small hand
impressively--"they _never_ tell you how it looks!"

Achilles brought a chair and placed it near the open door. "Will
it--kindly--you sit?" he said, gravely.