Neæra was shocked to see the ravages which affliction had wrought in her mother’s appearance, and the heartbroken widow, on her part, scanned the pale face of her fosterchild with tenderness and pity. When Neæra had related her experiences, since she had been taken away from her home, she led Tibia on gently, in her turn, to speak of herself, and of him they had so looked up to, and reverenced. But as the dame came at length to mention her husband, her voice broke down at the word, and she got no further. They said no more—all that was in their hearts was merged in silent weeping. The wonder of Neæra was no less than her joy at the presence of the dame in the island, but the latter seemed loth to give any explanation thereof, and tried to turn from the subject as often as it was put. Neæra, at last, pressed the matter in an unavoidable manner. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘you have not yet told me how you contrived to get here. Did they bring you away as they brought me? Or did you come of your own accord to seek me? It was strange if you were able to enter here alone.’ ‘No—I came with others,’ said Tibia. ‘You shall know everything.’ She stopped and turned her eyes to the floor, and her breast began to heave with emotion. A dull, chill horror sank into Neæra’s heart. Her mind was prone to fear, being overcharged and susceptible through long and dark brooding. ‘Speak!’ she whispered. ‘What new trouble is this? Tell me—I can bear it.’ The old woman glanced up into the girl’s face, and, divining the signs of terror which dwelt there, took her hand caressingly. ‘It is no new trouble, thank the gods,’ she faltered. ‘We have had plenty of that. Nay, I must call it rather happiness——’ ‘Ah, I thought you were about to tell me something terrible of Lucius,’ murmured Neæra, drawing a deep breath, as a great load, like the shadow of death, slid from her mind. ‘No! It is of yourself. It is time you must know all,’ said Tibia. ‘Child, you must never call me mother any more.’ It hardly needs to tell the start of surprise which Neæra gave at these words. Through her amazement, the strange wistfulness of the dame’s glance and her broken, pathetic tones struck to her heart. She threw her arms around her aged neck. ‘What is it you are saying?’ she cried. ‘Why do you look like that? What is it I am to know? Am I to lose mother as well? Mother you are, and always must be.’ For some moments Tibia remained in silence within the arms of the young girl, as if unable to force herself from the warmth of what might be the last heartfelt, daughterlike caress. Then at length she slowly uplifted the shapely arms, and, as she did so, pressed one hand of the girl to her lips, whilst the tears trickled down from her eyes.