admirable Myrtilus had been killed by the marauders. A carved stone had
been found under the ashes, and Chello, the Tennis goldsmith, said he had
had in his own workshop the gem set in the hapless artist's shoulder
clasp, and supplied it with a new pin.

While speaking, he took Hermon's hand and gave him the stone, but the
artist instantly used his finger tips to feel it.

Perhaps it really did belong to the clasp Myrtilus wore, for, although
still unpractised in groping, he recognised that a human head was carved
in relief upon the stone, and Mrytilus's had been adorned with the
likeness of the Epicurean.

The damaged little work of art, in the opinion of Proclus and Daphne,
appeared to represent this philosopher, and at the thought that his
friend had fallen a victim to the flames Hermon bowed his head and
exerted all his strength of will in order not to betray by violent sobs
how deeply this idea pierced his heart.

Thyone, shrugging her shoulders mournfully, pointed to the suffering
artist. Proclus nodded significantly, and, moving nearer to Hermon,
informed him that he had sought out his Demeter and found the statue
uninjured. He was well aware that it would be presumptuous to offer
consolation in so heavy an affliction, and after the loss of his dearest
friend, yet perhaps Hermon would be glad to hear his assurance that he,
whose judgment was certainly not unpractised, numbered his work among the
most perfect which the sculptor's art had created in recent years.

"I myself best know the value of this Demeter," the sculptor broke in
harshly. "Your praise is the bit of honey which is put into the mouth of