leaf.

The child bent above it with pleased glance. Her eyes travelled to his
face.

He nodded quickly. "I thought of you. It is the Eastern citron. See--"
He lifted the leaf and held it suspended. "It hangs like this--and the
fruit is blue--grey-blue like--" His eye travelled about the elaborate
room. He shook his head slowly. Then his glance fell on the grey gown
of Miss Stone as it fell along the rug at her feet, and he bowed
with gracious appeal for permission. "Like the dress of madame," he
said--"but warmer, like the sun--and blue."

A low colour crept up into the soft line of Miss Stone's cheek and
rested there. She sat watching the two with slightly puzzled eyes. She
was a lady--kindly and gracious to the world--but she could not have
thought of anything to say to this fruit-peddler who had seemed, for
days and weeks, to be tumbling all Greek civilisation about her head.
The child was chatting with him as if she had known him always. They had
turned to each other again, and were absorbed in the silken leaf--the
man talking in soft, broken words, the child piecing out the
half-finished phrase with quick nod and gesture, her little voice
running in and out along the words like ripples of light on some dark
surface.

The face of Achilles had grown strangely radiant. Miss Stone, as she
looked at it again, was almost startled at the change. The sombre look
had vanished. Quick lights ran in it, and little thoughts that met the
child's and laughed. "They are two children together," thought Miss
Stone, as she watched them. "I have never seen the child so happy. She