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had a secret. Why did she not tell it? She did not know. She could not, after having once kept silent. She knew that she was not doing right by being silent, and yet she did not speak. But she was very sad about it, and felt dissatisfied. Then she wanted to speak with Eros; but because she had said nothing at first, she was afraid. And then she said to herself: “The Satyr does nothing wrong by standing there and piping a little, and it is not worth while thinking much about it. . . .”

And yet she did think about it, and in her ears she always heard his saucy voice, his coarse words, countrified and funny.

Then she laughed about it all.

“But what does he do—what is he? a Satyr? What is a Satyr? What are Bacchantes? And what are nymphs? Panthers, too, I have never seen. I should like to see