"Is it not wonderful," she said, "to take the clay and work in into
forms? Not everyone could do that--could you do it?"

Phidias laughed.

"Perhaps not so well as your father," he answered kindly. "Still,
I can do it."

A sudden thought struck Iris.

"Perhaps you would help father?" she said eagerly. "Ah! but I ought
not to have said that."

"Perhaps I can help him," replied Phidias good-naturedly. "Anyway,
take me to him."

She led him through some side streets into the poorest parts of the
city, and stopped before a little window, where a few roughly-wrought
images and vases were exposed to view. She beckoned to him to follow
her, and opening the door, crept gently into a room which served
as their workshop and dwelling-place. Phidias saw a man stretched
out on a couch at the farther end of the room, near a bench where
many images and pots of all sorts lay unfinished.

"This is our home," whispered Iris proudly, "and that is my father
yonder."

The image-maker looked up and called for Iris.

"I am so faint, child," he murmured. "If I could only become strong