‘In Surrentum—if I mistake not, in a potter’s shop. But she is better known, I believe, to the Centurion Martialis,’ replied Afer, with the unfailing curl of his lip, half smile and half sneer. There was a gentle titter; the face of the young girl became crimson, and she dropped her head. Tibia, despite her timidity, cast an indignant glance at the speaker and those smiling around, as she drew the maiden nearer to her. ‘It may be so, but I wait your opinion with regard to the resemblance which seemed to strike me,’ said Tiberius; ‘you also appear to be very strongly impressed with the likeness, Afer.’ ‘In truth, I confess I am,’ returned the knight, as his eyes returned again to the cornelian with a puzzled air; ‘I admit there is a strong likeness, especially in the eyes and mouth, though this is taken from a woman somewhat older. I seem to know the face, and yet——’ ‘Doubtless you do, for it belongs to a relative of your own,’ said Tiberius. ‘He has honoured us with a visit, and here he is.’ All eyes followed the glance of Caesar, and saw Fabricius, followed by Natta and an elderly fellow‐servant, appear through the curtains which covered the entrance of an inner room. The old senator came forward with an erect body and firm step. His face was very pale and stern, and, as he advanced with a measured step, he kept his eyes persistently fixed upon the persons of Tiberius and his granddaughter, to the determined exclusion of every one else. Afer was transfixed with amazement, and barely saved himself from uttering an exclamation. Had his house on the Esquiline suddenly planted itself before him, his face could scarcely have shown more unrestrained surprise. ‘Welcome, noble Fabricius,’ said Tiberius, as the old man made a deep obeisance before him and Livia; ‘welcome to Capreae—we are busy in this affair of yours. Your worthy nephew looks dumfounded at seeing you.’ ‘Uncle!’ cried the wondering voice of Afer, now released by the words of Caesar; ‘you here! This is strange!’ The knight took a step or two forward, and then hesitated. The old man gave him not the least sign of acknowledgment, but, raising his glance for the first time, met the lustrous eyes of Neæra fixed upon him, with a world of anxiety in their depths. The occasional deep heaves of her bosom showed that she was holding her breath in her agitation, and the burning gaze of Fabricius seemed to pierce her with its intensity. He placed one hand over his heart, and a flush covered his wan face. Another moment he looked, and then stretched forth his arms toward her with a strange cry— ‘Aurelia—my Aurelia! My child!’