been so near him since, when a boy of seven, she clasped him for the last
time to her heart. She tenderly held out her arms to him, and he rushed
into her embrace, shouting exultantly while she hugged and kissed him.
Every pet name which he had once been so glad to hear, and during recent
years had forgotten, again fell from her lips. As had often happened in
days long past, he again saw his mother crown him for a festival.
Pleased with the little new garment which she herself had woven for him
and embroidered with a tiny tree with red apples, beneath which stood a
bright-plumaged duckling, she led him by the hand in the necropolis to
the empty tomb dedicated to his father.

It was a building the height of a man, constructed of red Cyprian
marble, on which, cast in bronze, shield, sword, and lance, as well as
a beautiful helmet, lay beside a sleeping lion. It was dedicated to the
memory of the brave hipparch whom he had been permitted to call his
father, and who had been burned beside the battlefield on which he had
found a hero's death.

Hermon now again beheld himself, with his mother, garlanding, anointing,
and twining with fresh fillets the mausoleum erected by his uncle Archias
to his brave brother. The species of every flower, the colour of the
fillets-nay, even the designs embroidered on his little holiday robe--
again returned to his mind, and, while these pleasant memories hovered
around him, he appealed to his mother in prayer.

She stood before him, young and beautiful, listening without reproach or
censure as he besought her forgiveness and confided to her his sins, and
how severely he was punished by Nemesis.

During this confession he felt as though he was kneeling before the