. . . Clio, who was married, had done it. She had returned, blushing; but would not tell what she had seen . . . But Pan had no secrets from the summer sun.
All about, the leaves and branches cast shadow tracings on the warm grass. The bees droned from flower to flower upon their endless tasks and, from a distance, over the fields, came the soft call of a shepherd's pipes.
Lysidice was very happy, for the smiling world was kind to her and she loved the trees and the flowers. She was no longer a child. Since the winter past, she had been a woman grown; and soon, perhaps, she would be a wife. Already the coronals were not wanting at her door; and Lacon, who was browned by the sun and smooth-limbed as Adonis, had offered to teach her how to play on his pipes. Her heart was full from the very joy of being alive, feeling about her the warm
