It was a dismal, weird scene, lighted by the dull, smoky flame of a rude lamp. The contents of two chests littered the floor with homely linen and wearing apparel, together with numberless odds and ends stored by a thrifty housewife. The simple articles of furniture were awry and overturned. The broad, burly form of the man lying face downwards, half upon the pile of bedding and half upon the floor; the woman crouching beside the naked pallet bed, with her head bowed down upon her knees. Two or three locks of her thin gray hair had escaped from their fastening, and hung loosely down over her tightly clasped hands. She was most to be pitied. She had lost her husband and child, and sat, an aging woman, amidst the wreck of her home, which had hitherto bounded her life and thoughts. The ghostly, unutterable stillness long continued, and the only thing which seemed to have life was the smoky yellow flame of the lamp, as it waved and flared in the currents of air which came through the open door. Presently Cestus turned over with a sigh and sat up. He directed his gaze toward the motionless form of his sister, and his eyes filled with an unaccustomed compassion. Long years ago, when, as a youth, he left his father’s cottage, in consequence of some misdeed, to go and seek his fortune in the great city, this sister had been the last one to give him tearful farewell words of hope and encouragement. That scene was still bright in his memory. The pretty maiden standing in the middle of the sunlit road, where she had kissed him, waving her hand as he turned the bend which hid her from view. There she was now—old, faded, wrinkled, toil‐worn, and broken‐hearted. And he, since that day when her pure kiss and warm tears fell on his beardless face—— He turned away his head, and resting his chin on his hand and his elbow on his knee, he remained staring at vacancy. He might have been a stony embodiment of abstraction, with widely‐distended, lustreless eyes which stared as if frozen in grim despair. Such an expression Dante might have figured among the sombre troops of the infernal regions. Nearly half an hour passed; then Tibia raised her wan face. The sound of a footstep in the passage below struck on her ears. It moved irresolutely, and finally, from the foot of the stairs, came a subdued, yet anxious voice calling upon the name of Neæra. Starting at the tones Tibia gave a low cry, and turned her eyes anxiously on her brother. But he was buried in a lethargy, and seemingly oblivious of everything. She, therefore, bowed her face again, and rocked herself with the same weary motion. The call was repeated a little louder, but no reply being vouchsafed, a step came bounding up the stairs and entered the room. The glitter of a polished cuirass crossed the tranced eyes of Cestus and broke the spell which bound him. He looked up and beheld Martialis standing before him, regarding the scene with knitted brows and utter astonishment.