He did not think it prudent to strain his budding strength by traversing the whole distance to Neapolis on that night, so he put up at the first tavern he met with, at a convenient distance from Puteoli. The next morning he was astir early and entered Neapolis. Here he loitered for a day, and then proceeded on a leisurely walking tour of the bay. He ambled along through the towns and past the villas which lined that matchless shore, drinking in the pure air, and enjoying the scenery as far as he was capable of doing. He had a well‐filled purse, and he took his ease at his inn, where he fed and drank of the best. He did not overtask his strength, and every day increased it, for, indeed, he could not have hit upon a better plan for that end. In this way he proceeded through Herculaneum, Pompeii, Stabiae, the most considerable towns on his route, till at length, on one afternoon, he sat to rest himself upon the worn basin of the self‐same ancient fountain, of which we have already spoken, on the verge of the town of Surrentum. ‘Houf!’ he sighed, as he seated himself; ‘and here is the place at last! And now to find my potter!’ He sank into a reverie, and then lifted his head and looked around him. ‘The place looks the same as far as I can remember—it must be fourteen years since I was here. Fourteen years! How in the name of the furies do I know what has happened since then! Tibia, my sister, may be dead and dust by this time—her husband too, and—and the whole lot, and then what better shall I be? It is strange I never seemed to think seriously of this till now, at the very gates of the place—what if they are gone, flitted to no one knows where—Greece, Egypt, Africa, Gaul,—why, then I shall have only the small satisfaction of treating my patron to a taste of his own play—humph! No matter, I shall soon know.’ He arose from his seat and walked a few paces onward, when he called to a lad who was nigh. ‘Boy, do you know a potter hereabouts, by name Masthlion—if he be dead or alive? or——’ The boy simply turned and pointed to the end of a narrow lane which debouched close to. Cestus, thereupon, looked more inquiringly about him, as if striving to recall some remembrance of the spot. ‘I seem to have a sort of recollection of this place—up there is it?’ The lad nodded. ‘Alive?’ The taciturn youth nodded once more, and Cestus walked on with his mind considerably relieved. Once in the little street his memory served him better. ‘Just the same,’ he said, striding into the shop. No one being there he proceeded into the house, where he was equally unsuccessful in discovering any sign of life. He then tried the workshop, and, at last, stood in the presence of those within, as we have described. CHAPTER VIII.