faintly in the light. It was a bit of the heart of Athens prisoned
there; and many times, through the cold and snow and bitter sleet of
that winter, Achilles took down the fig-box and peered into its depths
at a silky bit of grey cradle swung from the side of the box by its
delicate bands.




II

A BUTTERFLY SPREADS ITS WINGS

It happened, on a Wednesday in May that Madame Lewandowska was ill.
So ill that when Betty Harris, with her demure music-roll in her hand,
tapped at the door of Madame Lewandowska's studio, she found no one
within.

On ordinary days this would not have mattered, for the governess, Miss
Stone, would have been with her, and they would have gone shopping or
sightseeing until the hour was up and James returned. But to-day Miss
Stone, too, was ill, James had departed with the carriage, and Betty
Harris found herself standing, music-roll in hand, at the door of Madame
Lewandowska's studio--alone in the heart of Chicago for the first time
in the twelve years of her life.

It had been a very carefully guarded life, with nurses and servants
and instructors. No little princess was ever more sternly and
conscientiously reared than little Betty Harris, of Chicago. For her
tiny sake, herds of cattle were slaughtered every day; and all over