Mr. Achilles

ut not cold enough to endanger the fruit that Achilles handled so deftly in his dark, slender fingers. As he built the oranges into their yellow pyramid an

ts, one to the north and one to the south, calling antiphonally as they went,

ack once more in Athens. He raised his eyes and gave a quick, deep glance up and down the street-soot and dirt and grime, frowning buildings and ugly lines, and overhead a meagre strip of sky. Over Athens the sky hung glorious, a curve of light from side to side. His soul flew wide to meet it. Once more he was swinging

g fast from street to street. It was not thus in his dream. He had seen a land of new faces, turned ever to the West, with the light on them. He had known them, in his dream-eager faces, full of question and quick response. His soul had gone out to them and, musing in sunny Athens, he had made ready for them. Each morning when he rose he had lifted his glance to the Parthenon, studying anew the straight lines-that were yet not straight-the mysterious, dismantled beauty, the mighty lift of its presence. When they should question him, in this new land, he must not fail them. Th

ot know that he was Greek. Perhaps if they knew that he had been in Athens, had lived there all his life from a boy, they would question him. The day that he first thought of this, he had ordered a new sign painted. It bore his name

most precious treasures. Over and over he dwelt on them. Ever in memory his feet climbed the steps to the Acropolis or walked beneath stately orange-trees, beating a soft rhythm to the sound of flute and viol. For Achilles was by

They did not ask of Athens. They did not know that he was Greek. They did not care that his name was Achilles. They did not see him standing there with waiting eyes. He might have been a banana on its stem, a fig-leaf against the wall, the dirt that gritted beneath their feet, for all that their eyes took note.... Yet they were not cruel or thoughtless. Sometimes there came a belat

oward him, sniffing the air a little as

e shop and reached to the swinging bunch

ep nearer. "Too

lly on its string. "These-not ripe, and these." His sun

at them. "Well-you might

me." He had seize

large one near the centre;

the cream of the bunch. She eyed him doubtfully

the coin she dropped into h

wd moved more slowly, with lo

the glowing fruit. The eyes of the children were full of light and question. Somewhere in their depths Ach

d in midair, remained swaying back and forth above the dark obstruction. Slowly it descended and hunched itself anew along the finger. It travelled up the motionless hand and reached the sleeve. With a smile on his lips Achilles entered the shop. He took down an empty fig-box and transferred the treasure to its depths, dropping in after it one or two leaves and a bit of twig. He fitted the lid to the box, leaving a little air, and taking the