‘Did your mind never suspect as you looked upon the girl shooting up? Did you never wonder and say to yourself, what kind of poor swinkers were they from whom sprang such a brave slip? Why, it is the first thought which would have struck me, had I never known anything about her—a tall clean‐ made lass, like one of their goddesses in their temples. I have watched her, kinsman, these few hours—she has ripened just to what might have been expected. I have seen the turn and flash of her eyes, the working of her thoughts written plainly on her face—her whole bearing. Did they ever spring out of the den of work‐a‐day folks? No, her breed will show itself. Common homespun and ignorance cannot hide it from those that know it—but what can you know, Masthlion, of these proud aristocrats?’ ‘Aristocrats!’ exclaimed the potter, springing from his seat. ‘This is another deception—another of your tales!’ ‘That you will discover before very long, I hope,’ replied Cestus drily. ‘And her people yet live, say you?’ ‘One at least—that will be quite sufficient.’ Masthlion dropped back into his seat with a suppressed groan. ‘Then if this be true I have indeed lost her!’ he said, and he buried his face in his hands. ‘’Tis nought to grieve over,’ remarked Cestus, shrugging his shoulders in contempt at his companion’s want of shrewdness; ‘on the contrary, you should be in a dancing mood with joy. You have reared up the youngster to as fine a filly as one could wish to see, and you may well expect to have your strong chest well lined—better than ever it was before.’ ‘Tell me not of money—who thinks of money!’ cried Masthlion. ‘All the gold in the proud city of Rome itself would never comfort me one jot for the taking away of the child. Why did you ever bring her to me, Cestus, and then I had been spared this?—but then, if you had not, I had missed the happiness of the child’s presence these fourteen years.’ ‘Exactly,’ replied Cestus, seconding that with alacrity, ‘and then, kinsman, as we have already agreed that you must lose her whichever way it goes, it is, therefore, best to be rid of her on the best terms. Strike the balance and you have a great deal to thank me for. Cheer up, man; things are seldom so black as they are painted at first. You will not be left out altogether in the cold, maybe.’ ‘The Centurion and she have already pressed me to follow them to Rome,’ said Masthlion dejectedly. ‘Good! it is the only place fit for a sensible man to dwell in. You may be as secret as you wish, or as public as you think proper to make yourself.’ ‘I should be nearer to her of a truth,’ muttered the potter to himself, ‘and could get a glimpse of her from time to time.’ ‘True again,’ cried Cestus, overhearing; ‘that is to be done quietly at any corner of a street; but it would be well to avoid possible disappointment and not build upon any nearer familiarity—knights and potters don’t match very well.’