"Once upon a time—that is the correct way to begin, Rachel, is it not?—there lived a very wicked and cruel Emperor, so cruel that his name has become a proverb." "Nero," exclaimed the children in one breath. "Yes, that is right," said Mr. St. John, continuing his story; "there were a great many Christians then; they were people who loved the Lord very dearly, for in confessing Him they ran the risk of the most awfully cruel death—Nero had his spies everywhere." "What is a spy, father?" "You will see, dear; they were people who pretended to be what they were not; they professed to be friendly with the Christians—even to be Christians themselves sometimes—and they would go to their secret meetings held in the catacombs." "The what?" said Rachel, "what long words, father." "The catacombs were vast dark passages underneath the city where the Christians used to meet and worship God; but you ask so many questions, Rachel," said her father, smiling, "that I lose the thread of my story." "You were explaining about the spies, father," put in, Cicely, gently. "Oh yes, to be sure; well, these spies got to know all about the meetings, and they came too, pretending that they were Christians themselves, and then denounced everyone who was there to the Emperor." "How dreadfully mean," said Rachel, her eyes flashing. "Yes, dear; well on one occasion when a great many of these followers of Christ were taken prisoners, Nero gave a large entertainment, and actually lighted his gardens with their bodies. Now, Rachel, part of my story is true and part is imagination—that part, I grieve to say, is true. Now I want you to think of a man, a Christian man, who lived with his wife and family some miles from Rome in comparative safety; this man knew—his children knew what their fellow Christians were suffering, and yet that very evening they made merry and had games, and a feast in the garden." Rachel’s eyes were full of indignant tears. "How could they, father?" she said, "how could they? I should have cried all the evening! I couldn’t have helped it." "Just so, dear," said Mr. St. John, gently, and he laid his hand tenderly on the child’s hair. "Last night I got a letter from your uncle from Pekin—it’s a sad letter, Rachel; Christians are being tortured and killed to-day in China, just as they were 2,000 years ago in Rome. And I know my little girl would be the last to wish to make the day that is bringing so much sadness and pain to our brothers and sisters in Christ a gala day with us." "No," said Rachel, with a great sigh, "of course I shouldn’t like that, but oh, how I wish the Christians were not being killed, because it would have been so nice to have had you to ourselves for a whole day, father."