olives as they gathered them from the trees. Ladders leaned
against knotty tree trunks; baskets filled with the green fruit
stood on the ground. Ladder and basket suggested the apple
orchards of her native land, but the motley colors of kerchief
and apron, yellow, magenta, turquoise, and green, and the gray of
the eternal olive trees with the deep blue of the sky behind
them, recalled her to the enchanted country where she was fast
losing the landmarks of home.

"Signorina Daphne," said Bertuccio, speaking slowly as to a
child, "did you ever hear them tell of the maiden on the hills up
here who was carried away by a god?"

Daphne turned swiftly and tried to read his face. It was no less
expressionless than usual.

"No," she answered. "Tell me. I am fond of stories."

They were climbing the winding road again, leaving the olive
pickers behind. Bertuccio walked near, holding the donkey's tail
to steady his steps.

"It was long ago, ages and ages. Her father had the care of an
olive orchard that was old, older than our Lord," said Bertuccio,
devoutly crossing himself. "There was one tree in it that was
enormously big, as large as this,--see the measure of my arms! It
was open and hollow, but growing as olives will when there is
every reason why they should be dead. One night the family were
eating their polenta--has the Signorina tasted our polenta ? It
makes itself from chestnuts, and it is very good. I must speak