‘Here is no matter of killing for theft,’ observed the leech to the household, gathered in concern to hear his dictum, ‘unless, indeed, as may be easily believed, that he was the thief. More likely a street scuffle with some night‐hawks of his own feather. ’Tis a deep gash, but ill‐aimed. He is a tough rogue, and will recover most likely. Had he been a good, honest citizen of worth to be deplored, he most likely would have died. But being what I take him to be, a rascal, he will come round no doubt. I am afraid, neighbour, you will never be requited for your benevolence.’ ‘No matter,’ responded the master of the house, who was an elderly man, with sparse, gray hair, and a sad expression of face; ‘do your best to effect a cure, if possible; if he lives, it may perhaps prove a lesson.’ ‘More likely to walk off with your valuables,’ said the physician, as he went out of the door. ‘Never could be such ingratitude,’ murmured the other; ‘even my wicked, wayward boy would scarce be so inhuman; and he has descended as low, perhaps, as this poor wretch.’ Cestus had every care paid to him, and for some days he remained in a critical state. Then he took a favourable turn for the better, and, aided by his robust constitution, very shortly became convalescent. His ingenuity was very lightly taxed to explain his disaster to his benefactor. He had refused, he said, to join a society of his fellow‐ workmen, who, no doubt, had attempted to be rid of him as being a thorn in their sides. He, likewise, hinted that he would be in danger of his life if he remained in Rome, and that he would take the earliest opportunity to be quit of it. As he was accustomed to lounge away his time in idleness, the period of his confinement did not prove so irksome as it might otherwise have done. His benefactor learnt to come and converse at tolerable length, when he became aware of the patient’s plausible and fluent tongue. It was, therefore, impossible, that, speaking thus familiarly and often, Cestus should not obtain a certain insight into the family affairs of his host. Amongst other things, he discovered that he owned a scapegrace son, whose misdoings were the sorrow of his life. The great and varied knowledge which the Suburan possessed of the outlawry of the city, enabled him to pitch upon the erring youth as a denizen of the same notorious locality as himself. This much he did not think prudent to reveal, and so, at the same time, saved the grieving parent a far darker evidence of crime than that which he already lamented. Hardened as he was, the old man’s sorrow and sense of shame touched him. His narrow escape from death and his enfeebled state, no doubt, had softened the crust about his heart. Had he been a member of the family he could not have been tended with more care and kindness, and this tugged at his heartstrings likewise. He acknowledged his gratefulness, and, for the time at least, it is certain he felt it. But, in the silent and lonely hours of his