Omphale.

Two women, at the parting of two ways,

Met the young Herakles at morning prime: One clad austerely, with clear upward gaze Beheld the secrets of eternal days,

And saw beyond the riddle of sick time;

The other wooed him with a wantonness

Of splendour far beyond his young desire,
Her trembling body seemed to pant to bless;
But the firm limbs shrank from the loose caress,
Untaught as yet to melt in such a fire.

He turned to her who did not need to woo:
She beckoned-and was half way out of sight,
And he leapt after gaily, for he knew

The path was straight and pearly with the dew,
Although her footsteps left no prints of light.

The other sobbed "She leaves thee with no guide,
"Behold I follow yet to be thy friend."
The boy, who had not slacked his scornful stride,
Started to feel her clinging at his side,

Yet answered, "She will meet me at the end."

The man through toil and peril followed on,

Till on a day his mighty knees were bowed, Where neither dew nor any footsteps shone, And only dust came up where he had gone, And all the sky was grey without a cloud.

Also the way was broken down before,

Nor might a man go forward without wings, Unless he entered at an open door, Whereon these words were writ, mid many more

Less plain, "Ye enter here the heart of things."

Within the door he saw a walled wood,

Beyond he saw the old path leading straight
Up open hills, and there his lady stood
Transfigured far beyond all womanhood,
Who seemed again to beckon-and to wait.

He saw her then; among the Gods on high

He looked for her in vain, till Hebe smiled
To see him turn and drink the nectar dry
To wash away the memory with the sigh:

He never knew how much he was beguiled

When through the door he hurried, in new haste,

Up the smooth path, which did not seem to swerve, As far as eyes less eager could have traced, Toward the austerely smiling upland waste,

Its slowly treacherous length of subtle curve.

Indeed, none standing at the door might say

If the old path were broken there, or men
Had merely trodden the green turf away,
Just where it seemed a goodly place to stay,

Gaze at the goal, and then mount up again.

The woodland path was pleasant to the feet,
Straight to the eye, as the old path had been,
And as it widened slowly through the heat,
Faint scented ferns made sultry stillness sweet,
Under grey, heavy sky, dim trees were green.

And yet, withal, the wood was full of fear,
It was so very lone, no squirrel ran
Across the path, no wood-bird sang to cheer

Him, who tramped on, and waked no couchant deer,
And saw behind, before, no other man.

At last the wood was over, he might stand

To draw new breath, and look for some new sign Where parti-coloured tilths of hollow land

Sloped upward soberly on either hand

To low hills terraced for the lowly vine.

And here the busy people went and came,

Each with his load, and none regarded him,
Or asked his neighbour of the stranger's name,
Or hoped he would not leave their lives the same,
Or told what trouble made their faces dim.

For every man was sick with smothered care,
And all the peaceful country heaved with wrong,
Too rooted for swift vengeance to repair;

The club of Herakles seemed idle there,

He marvelled to what end his arm was strong,

Where there was nought for him to mar or make,
None, when he slew, to fly upon the spoil,
None chose, however baffled hearts might ache
With envious greed unbrotherly, to break

The fruitful fellowship of settled toil.

So, through the press where he was most alone,
Half in a dream, adown a narrowing road,
That ran still plainly fenced, though overgrown,
Across broad winding ways of well-worn stone,
Herakles stumbled now rather than strode,

Hungry and faint, forgetful of his deeds,

And more than half forgetful of his choice, Uprooting, half in spite the wayside weeds, Hopeless of helping strange, unvoiceful needs,

Ripe for the greeting of a woman's voice,

Whose open house closed up the weedy track,
Which none but strangers now desired to tread,
For many entered once and few came back,
And these gave no man greeting and wore black,

As if they mourned their souls, they left there, dead.

But he, unknowing this, began to trace

Beneath brown hair, in dim grey linen rolled,

The stony lines of a grave gentle face,

Too calm for wrinkles, and too worn for grace,

Too patient to be counted young or old.

She met his look with level leaden eyes,

Heedless to woo, to beckon, or to thrill, Uncovetous indeed of any prize :

"Sit down," she said "while you have strength to rise. The muffled voice spake to his inmost will.

Then, for she saw him fain of such control,

Because the lion's skin was stained and torn,

She brought him women's raiment clean and whole,
Stirred milk and meal in a fair wooden bowl,
Laid by the useless club, and in no scorn,

Saying, "In my house my other women spin,"
She turned his face into the sheltered gloom,
Where many waited for her to begin,
Nor looking up to see whom she led in,

Kindly, incuriously they made him room.

The nearest reached a spindle from the wall,
Then took her place, and no one smiled to see
The sinewy hands of that ungainly thrall
Twitching to turn the slowly growing ball
Under the blue-veined hands of Omphale.

There he sat on and span where he was set,
The serious sameness of unmeaning truth
Put out desire and took away regret,
And made it strangely easy to forget

The promise of those others to his youth.

Omphale promised nothing, hardly spoke
Even to chide, so it was all his hire

To feel he grew familiar with her yoke,
Whence yet, in heaven, he marvels how he broke,

To Hebe, through the malness and the fire.

Zelda's Fortune.

CHAPTER XI.

THE OLD WOMAN AND THE WATER.

HAD been ashamed to receive Lord Lisburn in a room that was a palace compared with the abode into which Mrs. Goldrick, on my saying that I had business with her, guided me. As a medical man, I had not failed to see poverty in most of its forms, but here was something I had never seen. No one but a miser, I felt sure, could prefer such a dwelling-place to the workhouse or to chance barns-which are at any rate furnished with straw. The house itself was falling to pieces with damp and rottenness, and in the room which evidently served as the kitchen and sitting-room

-to judge from a few chair-legs smouldering in the grate-there was not even a stool to sit down upon. The woman herself had well won the character given her by the curate-she was gaunt, haggard, and grim to the last degree: her eyes were dim and clouded as if the daylight was painful to them, and there was a stony expression not only about her face but her whole figure, as though she had been petrified by misery, or by misanthropy, or by crime. I felt myself in the presence of one who had to conceal some terrible history, to which a very few ineffaceable traces of statuesque beauty and a certain unconscious ease and repose of bearing added a striking dignity, although her shoulders stooped and she was clothed in tatters of which a beggar would have been ashamed. I had not become a critical student of pictures for nothing, and so marked was