figure was sketched in outline. Ariston was rapidly laying on paint with
his little brushes. His eyes glowed with Apollo's own fire. His lips
were open, and his breath came through them pantingly.

"O god of beauty, god of Hellas, god of freedom, help me!" he half
whispered while his brush worked.

For he had a great plan in his mind. Here he was, a slave in this rich
Roman's house. Yet he was a free-born son of Athens, from a family of
painters. Pirates had brought him here to Pompeii, and had sold him as a
slave. His artist's skill had helped him, even in this cruel land. For
his master, Tetreius, loved beauty. The Roman had soon found that his
young Greek slave was a painter. He had said to his steward:

"Let this boy work at the mill no longer. He shall paint the walls of my
private room."

So he had talked to Ariston about what the pictures should be. The Greek
had found that this solemn, frowning Roman was really a kind man. Then
hope had sprung up in his breast and had sung of freedom.

"I will do my best to please him," he had thought. "When all the walls
are beautiful, perhaps he will smile at my work. Then I will clasp his
knees. I will tell him of my father, of Athens, of how I was stolen.
Perhaps he will send me home."

Now the painting was almost done. As he worked, a thousand pictures were
flashing through his mind. He saw his beloved old home in lovely Athens.
He felt his father's hand on his, teaching him to paint. He gazed again
at the Parthenon, more beautiful than a dream. Then he saw himself