saw, stepping daintily through one of the entrances at the side,
an audience of white sheep. They overspread the stage, cropping
as they went. They climbed the green encircling seats, leaping
up or down, where a softer tuft of grass invited. They broke the
dreamy silence with the muffled sound of their hoofs, and an
occasional bleat.

The girl knew them now. She had seen before the brown-faced
twins, both wearing tiny horns; they always kept together. She
knew the great white ewe with a blue ribbon on her neck, and the
huge ram with twisted horns that made her half afraid. Would he
mind Scotch plaid, she wondered, as he raised his head and eyed
her? She sat alert, ready for swift flight up the slope behind
her in case of attack, but he turned to his pasture in the pit
with the air of one ready to waive trifles, and the girl leaned
back again.

When Apollo, the keeper of sheep, entered, Daphne received his
greeting with no surprise: even if he had come without these
forerunners she would have known that he was near. It was she
who broke the silence as he approached.

"A theatre seems a singularly appropriate place for you and your
flock," she remarked. "You make a capital actor."

There was no laughter in his eyes to-day and he did not answer. A
wistful look veiled the triumphant gladness of his face.

"They didn't play pastorals in olden time, did they?" asked
Daphne.