“It stands so high and lifts itself”—­Achilles raised his dark hands—­“ruined there—­so great—­and far beneath, the city lies, drawing near and near, and yet it cannot reach...  And all around is light—­and light—­and light.  Here it is a cellar”—­his hands closed in with crushing touch—­“but there—!” He flung the words from him like a chant of music, and a sky stretched about them from side to side, blue as sapphire and shedding radiant light upon the city in its midst—­a city of fluted column and curving cornice and temple and arch and tomb.  The words rolled on, fierce and eager.  It was a song of triumph, with war and sorrow and mystery running beneath the sound of joy.  And the child, listening with grave, clear eyes, smiled a little, holding her breath.  “I see it—­I see it!” She half whispered the words.

Achilles barely looked at her.  “You see—­ah, yes—­you see.  But I—­I have not words!” It was almost a cry....  “The air, so clear—­like wine—­and the pillars straight and high and big—­but light—­light—­reaching....”  His soul was among them, soaring high.  Then it returned to earth and he remembered the child.

“And there is an olive-tree,” he said, kindly, “and a well where Poseidon—­”

“I’ve heard about the well and the olive-tree,” said the child; “I don’t care so much about them.  But all the rest—­” She drew a quick breath.  “It is very beautiful.  I knew it would be.  I knew it would be!”

There was silence in the room.

“Thank you for telling me,” said Betty Harris.  “Now I must go.”  She slipped from the chair with a little sigh.  She stood looking about the dim shop.  “Now I must go,” she repeated, wistfully.

Achilles moved a step toward the shelf.  “Yes—­but wait—­I will show you.”  He reached up to the box and took it down lightly.  “I show you.”  He was removing the cover.

The child leaned forward with shining eyes.

A smile came into the dark, grave face looking into the box.  “Ah, he has blossomed—­for you.”  He held it out to her.

She took it in shy fingers, bending to it.  “It is beautiful,” she said, softly.  “Yes—­beautiful!”

The dark wings, with shadings of gold and tender blue, lifted themselves a little, waiting.

The child looked up.  “May I touch it?” she asked.

“Yes—­But why not?”

The dark head was bent close to hers, watching the wonderful wings.

Slowly Betty Harris put out a finger and stroked the wings.

They fluttered a little—­opened wide and rose—­in their first flutter of light.

“Oh!” It was a cry of delight from the child.

The great creature had settled on the bunch of bananas and hung swaying.  The gold and blue wings opened and closed slowly.

Achilles drew near and put out a finger.

The butterfly was on it.

He held it toward her, smiling gently, and she reached up, her very breath on tiptoe.  A little smile curved her lips, quick and wondering, as the transfer was made, thread by thread, till the gorgeous thing rested on her own palm.