beyond, through an open door, fowls could be seen wandering about the
farm-yard. Suddenly the quiet of the late afternoon was broken by a
medley of sounds. There were the bleating of sheep, and the tinkle of
their bells, the lowing of cattle and the barking of a dog, the soft
patter of bare feet and the voices of children.

Then there was a sudden squawking among the hens in the farm-yard,
and through the back door, past the glowing hearth and into the court,
rushed two children, followed by a huge shepherd dog. The children were
blue-eyed and golden-haired, like their Mother, and looked so big and
strong that they might easily have passed for twelve years of age, though
they really were but ten. They were so exactly alike that their Mother
herself could hardly tell which was Dion and which was Daphne, and, as
for their Father, he didn't even try. He simply said whichever name came
first to his lips, feeling quite sure that the children would always be
able to tell themselves apart, at any rate. Daphne, to be sure, wore
her chiton a little longer than Dion wore his, but when they were running
or playing games she often pulled it up shorter through her girdle, so
even that was not a sure sign.

Lydia looked from one of them to the other as the children came bounding
into the court, with Argos, the dog, barking and leaping about them, and
smiled with pride.

"Where have you been, you wild creatures?" she said to the twins, "I
haven't seen you since noon," and "Down, Argos, down," she cried to the
dog, who had put his great paws in her lap and was trying to kiss her on
the nose.

"We've been down in the field by the spring with Father," Dion shouted,