screen as before, but it was so much too heavy for her that the effort
brought the blood into her calm, fair face, as the deep, rough "That is
enough" was again heard from the work-table.

Then silence reigned once more. Only the artist's low whistling as he
worked, or the patter and pipe of the birds in their cages by the window,
broke the stillness of the spacious room, till the voice and step of a
man were presently heard in the anteroom.

Heron laid by his graver and Melissa her gold embroidery, and the eyes
of father and daughter met for the first time for some hours. The very
birds seemed excited, and a starling, which had sat moping since the
screen had shut the sun out, now cried out, "Olympias!" Melissa rose, and
after a swift glance round the room she went to the door, come who might.

Ay, even if the brother she was expecting should bring a companion,
or a patron of art who desired her father's work, the room need not fear
a critical eye; and she was so well assured of the faultless neatness of
her own person, that she only passed a hand over her brown hair, and with
an involuntary movement pulled her simple white robe more tightly through
her girdle.

Heron's studio was as clean and as simple as his daughter's attire,
though it seemed larger than enough for the purpose it served, for only a
very small part of it was occupied by the artist, who sat as if in exile
behind the work-table on which his belongings were laid out: a set of
small instruments in a case, a tray filled with shells and bits of onyx
and other agates, a yellow ball of Cyrenian modeling-wax, pumice-stone,
bottles, boxes, and bowls.