He was revolving the possibilities of such an appearance one afternoon, whilst lending Neæra some assistance in carrying a basket of new earthenware into the front shop, and arranging them on the shelves. When he had finished, he leisurely swung his cloak around him before he set forth on his usual stroll to the Marina, and admiringly watched the graceful movements of the maiden’s tall figure, as she put the finishing touches of arrangement to the wares on the shelf above her head. With a final, critical glance, she turned round and met his gaze. ‘Well,’ she said smilingly, ‘are you not gone?’ ‘I was doubtful which way to take,’ he replied; ‘but if you have anything more for me to help you with I would as lieve stay.’ ‘No, nothing at all; but wait one moment, uncle,’ she added quickly and softly, whilst her face at the same time assumed an earnest look as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘Tell me what ails my father?’ As she stood upright, with her head poised a little backward, her stature equalled his, and her calm, gray eyes looked full into his own. With another questioner, those small orbs of his would have twinkled keenly, as his tongue rapped out a ready evasion or bantering retort. But now they wandered to the pots on the shelves, during a moment of unwonted embarrassment and silent indecision. It was only for a brief moment, however, and his glance met hers again. ‘What ails your father, Neæra?’ he said quietly; ‘I don’t see that he ails anything. He seems as sound in health as ever, to my eyes. Why, what is the matter with him?’ ‘That I am asking you—not as regards his bodily health; that is sound enough, as you say, thank the gods. But there is some trouble—something preying on his mind: have you not noticed it?’ ‘I am sorry to hear you say it,’ replied Cestus, slowly shaking his head; ‘but I am not so well acquainted with his ways and humours as you are.’ ‘He has no ways and humours,’ she retorted swiftly, with a slight but significant rearing of her form—‘at least no strange ways or humours. He is ever open, cheerful, and light‐hearted, without a shadow of ill‐humour. Now he is silent and gloomy, and hides away from us—what is it?’ There was a tremor in her voice, and in the eyes, which still were steadfastly fixed on his face, he saw the trembling gleam of tears. ‘Nay, how should I know better than his daughter?’ he said, looking uncomfortably at the pots once more. ‘His daughter knows nothing save this, that this trouble, whatever it may be, which weighs upon him, began at the time you came here from Rome.’ ‘Ah, then,’ said Cestus, shrugging his shoulders and drawing a deep breath as if relieved, ‘if that is but the measure of the evil, it is easily mended by my shouldering my wallet and tramping back to Rome. You should have told me this before. I wouldn’t be a burden to the house, and be the cause of bringing a shadow on your pretty brow for all Surrentum.’