‘Humph! I must have more than your word for that.’ Plautus, without speaking, thrust his fist close up under the official’s nose, and displayed a signet ring gleaming on one of his bony fingers. The man of horses bobbed back his head with an angry gesture, which made the new‐comers laugh, and turning to the grooms, said snappishly, ‘Give him Livilla.’ Plautus again thrust his ring under his visage. ‘I said horses,’ he growled roughly; ‘here are six of us. Nor will the nag Livilla do for me—pick out your own, lads, and no more palaver.’ This was soon done, amid much noisy mirth and rude jesting, and in a few minutes they were all speeding along the road to Surrentum, making the most of the last minutes of departing daylight. Arriving at the town, they proceeded at a walk, in straggling order, to attract less attention. The streets were now dark, however, and the passers‐by few in number; nevertheless Plautus, in the van, thought fit also to defeat any idle curiosity by taking a devious route. Within a hundred yards of the dwelling of the ill‐fated Masthlion, the band dismounted; the sweating horses were fastened in a gloomy corner, and a man left in charge of them. Plautus, with the remainder, proceeded to the house. The outer door was closed and all was dark and silent. Plautus, ordering his companions to remain without until he called them, knocked loudly. A light step came running within. ‘Father, is it you?’ called the glad tones of Neæra’s voice. A bolt was drawn, the door opened, and the girl herself stood in the entrance, holding a light above her head, whilst she peered beneath, with eager expectation written on her face. ‘No, my pretty wench, it is not your father, that’s very sure,’ quoth Plautus, as he came forward out of the darkness into the feeble light thrown by the lamp. Neæra, with a cry of alarm, started back at the sight of the shrouded figure and the harsh features of the speaker. ‘Stop,’ he said, making good his entrance inside the shop; ‘don’t be afraid nor run away. If I’m not your father, I’ve come from your father—that is, if you are the daughter of Masthlion the potter.’ ‘I am,’ said the disappointed girl, whose anxiety to learn of the absent one struggled against feminine suspicion and timidity of the ill‐favoured visitor. ‘What have you to tell me of him? Why does he not come home? When is he coming?’ ‘For a particular reason he has not come home; nor is he coming yet. That is why he has sent me to bring you to him. To speak truth, he is taken very ill, and you are bidden to go back with me, straightway, to tend him.’ ‘That shall be my business,’ said a voice behind; ‘ill, did you say—my husband ill?’ ‘Eh!’ ejaculated Plautus, scanning the wrinkled anxious face of Tibia as she came forward; ‘are you his wife?’ ‘Yes,’ cried Neæra for her, in great agitation; ‘tell us, good sir, if he is very ill—speak quickly and tell us all.’ ‘How many more are there of you?’