Mr. Achilles

Harris-eager, triumphant, with a little

line between her eyes. "You have come, child?" It was half a caress. She put

was a handsome face with clear, hard lines-the reddish hair brushed up conventionally from the

ed frame into the midst of tapestry and leather in the library. It may have been that Betty's mother was quite as much a work of art in her way as these other treasures that had come from the Old World. But to Bett

her eyes travelled over the quaint, dignified little figure. The child was a Velasquez-people had often remarked it, and the mother had taken the note that gave to her clothes the regal air touched with sim

rated with the intensity behind it.

to the child's enthusiasms. Yet they were always new to her-ev

n't think I can tell it to you. But he is most wonderfu

was an idle, laughing question-wh

you, mother-dear, how it feels-" She laid a tiny hand on her chest. Her eyes w

ame Lewandowska in

s face cleared with swift thought.

ittle in its place, but the face was

r. Did you forget her toothache?"

was more a cry than a question-a cry of dismay, running swiftly toward terror. It was the haunting fear of her life that Betty

d was looking at her very straight, as if ans

rp, and her hand reached toward the bell; b

lease, mother. James never waits for the

h sudden mist. She drew the chil

er's sleeve. A little smile of memory held

waited, b

home, and I cam

his

le bag at her side, tugging at something. "He gave me these." She produced the round

she said. Her lips were still a little white, b

what he called them. I should like to taste on

" said the mother. She had touch

box-"tell Nesmer to ser

u, mother-dear?" The child's e

reply was prompt-if

"It is being a marvellou

ady for luncheon, and then you shal

r before set foot unattended in the streets of Chicago, had wandered for an hour and more in careless freedom, and straying at last into the shop of a marvellous Greek-o

red to Betty Harris that other little girls were not guarded from the moment they rose in the morning till they went to bed at night, and that even at night Miss Stone slept within sound of her breath. She had grown up happy and care-free, with no suspicion of the danger that threatened the child of

ry of delight-thanks to an unknown Greek named Achilles Alexandrakis, who had told her of the beauties of Greece and the Parthenon, and had given her fresh pomegranates to carry ho

d and turning it daintily to catch the light on its pink surface. "Th