and women, to human joy or sorrow, and brought life, or death, as the case might be; but Livia had actually spoken with a most exalted divinity and the magic and wonder of him were, for the moment, heavy upon her heart.

She yearned to worship him, but she concealed her desire from Festus. Circumstances unfortunately conspired to accentuate her longing and she felt an overmastering impulse to follow it.

There was, of course, much to be said for this apparent conversion; but it promised to make life exceedingly difficult, not only for her-she was going to have the centre of the stage to comfort her-but also for her husband, a man of fixed ideas and simple but most steadfast religious opinions.

C

IV

THE SELFISH OREAD

ARMENTA, the mother of Livia, called at the forge of Fabius, the

smith, who was accounted a wise man, when he chose to be wise. He and Carmenta had been very good friends in the past; indeed Livia was their daughter, and the mother thought that Fabius might now reasonably use his brains on the young woman's behalf.

But the forge lay a mile from the village, so that the sparks that were wont to fly above it should not set fire to the reed roofs. Carmenta, therefore, had to walk a mile and climb a little hill also before she reached it.

Stopping to rest at the summit of this knap, she fell in with an oread, one of those nymphs who dwell in the woodland. Carmenta felt

no surprise, for the oreads would often consult men and women about their own simple affairs; they were immortal maidens with more beauty than intellect.

Now the oread stopped Carmenta and begged a favour.

"I have a lesson and pray you hear it," she said.

"Do you do lessons?" asked the old woman, and listened while the other explained.

To-morrow I am to recite one of my poems before Bacchus. For I am a poet and the nymphs have told him about me, so he has bidden me rehearse before him. Naturally one wishes to shine on such an occasion, and I have invented a very long and beautiful poem ; but to learn it by heart was almost too much for me. I have wearied my friends with it and now I begin to doubt if it is as perfect as I thought. For if an artist dwells overlong with her own creation, a time comes when she grows uneasy and discovers only an increasing number of faults. But it will come freshly to

your ear, and you may do me a great kindness and hearten my sinking spirit, if you can honestly say that you like the poem, and think it worthy to be heard by Bacchus."

"Drat Bacchus !-it's Bacchus here, there and everywhere,” said Carmenta, much to the oread's surprise.

"Bacchus is a mighty and glorious god," she answered; and if by good chance my verses please him, he will reward me and perhaps permit me to join his train and take my place among his joyful companions."

There are too many gods,'

too many gods," answered Carmenta flatly. "How on earth is a poor body to decide among them which shall be worshipped and obeyed ?"

"You pay your devotion and you take your choice," replied the oread. "One should not decide in a hurry, but, having decided, it is well to be faithful, for the gods little like a follower to desert them, and the goddesses never forgive it."

"Women ought to worship the goddesses in my opinion," asserted Carmenta. "After

we have done with Venus, who does not desire to see old people at her altars, then let us pray to Minerva and stick to her. I am troubled about my daughter, Livia. However, that won't interest you and you couldn't throw any light upon it. So tell your poetry and I'll listen. But I warn you that I don't know anything whatever about poetry."

"Few do, but that doesn't prevent everybody from criticising it," answered the oread. "Once you were young and you loved, so you have lived poetry whether you knew anything about it or not-indeed, all humans do. They live better poetry than they can write, in fact, and if the least of you were able or willing to set down his life, great poetry would appear; but you are too self-conscious. His selfconsciousness comes between the mortal artist and his work, so that he can never attain perfection. Even gods are self-conscious, too, for that matter; but not the greatest. They say Jupiter is writing a poem for Juno; though it is much more likely to be for somebody else.' "Get on," directed Carmenta. "The dusk