The room was of good size, and the floor consisted of hard‐trodden earth. A window, or rather an opening which could be closed by a shutter, was on one side, and against it stood a bench, on which was a litter of tools, as well as one or two unfinished clay models of figures, with which Masthlion was fond of varying his time. In the centre of the floor was the potter’s wheel, which gave him his legitimate occupation. A large oven stood on the other side, and close by was also a small furnace. As there were to be seen lumps of unshaped glass lying scattered about in various parts of the workshop, as well as relics of glass bottles and other vessels, together with the tools by which they were produced, it was obvious, that the art of glass‐making formed also a pursuit of the potter, either as a hobby, or as a regular avocation. Masthlion himself was attired in his working clothes, and was smeared with clay and grime of the furnace from head to foot. From a habit of frequently drawing his hand across his forehead, his ample brow was of the colour of one of the little images on the bench; and, as this action was sometimes varied by a similar attention to other parts of his features, his face, in complexion, was little removed from the hue of his clothes. Neæra clasped her hands across his shoulder and leant her face toward his, for she was as tall, if not a little above his stature. The contrast between her lovely pure countenance and his oddly clay‐daubed visage was so comical that Martialis smiled. ‘Come, father,’ said Neæra in his ear; ‘you have wrought enough for to‐ day. It is not often we have a visitor.’ ‘Such a visitor—no!’ replied Masthlion, smiling. ‘Away! Leave me in my den—you want my room, not my company. Send your mother in here also, and keep the house yourselves.’ ‘No, no!’ ‘Stand off, girl, or farewell to your finery—think you that the soil on me is cleaner than that on the floor?’ He pushed her gently away from him and looked her over with a fond gaze of admiration. ‘Go, and trouble me not—you have troubled me enough already.’ ‘I have come this day to relieve you of her,’ interposed Martialis. ‘Eh?’ cried Masthlion, with a mighty start at this apt and sudden speech. His face flushed and paled under its coating of clay, and a momentary tremor passed through him, whilst the fair skin of Neæra flooded crimson, and her eyes fell. ‘Or, at least, to determine when your burden shall be lightened,’ added the young soldier. ‘Come, come; no more of this, Centurion,’ returned the potter, with a slight laugh, which had no shadow of gaiety in it, but only nervousness and pain. But the young man shook his head. ‘Be not so hasty to bereave us of what little consolation we have of our lives,’ added the potter. ‘The bereavement need not be so complete as you seem to think,’ said Martialis. ‘She and you in Rome, and we in Surrentum,’ sighed Masthlion; ‘the severance will be thoroughly done. But it must be, and must be faced.’