‘Centurion, I should be grieved to say that you are unwelcome, yet, I say plainly, that the honour of your visit is not altogether free from that feeling. Not from personal dislike, I am bound to say. I will be frank with you. I am a poor fellow, who earns a modest living for my family by the hard labour of my hands. You are of the knightly order, and hold high office in Caesar’s service. You are wholly above the station of me and mine. As you do not honour my humble dwelling for the sake of buying my handiwork in the way of trade, I have, therefore, a right to reflect and inquire what object your presence has.’ ‘You have a perfect right, Masthlion,’ replied the other, ‘and, although you know, as I think, right well already, I commend your method of putting the matter thus plainly. I have as little inclination to allow any misunderstanding and ambiguity to creep about my actions as you have, and I will, therefore, give you freely, and without hesitation, an answer as clear as your question—I love your daughter Neæra!’ The potter nodded in a manner which showed that the reply was no other than expected. His glance roved from one to the other, whilst his daughter’s head drooped so low that her face was completely hidden. ‘It is a matter which demands further talk, and, as there is no reason why it should take place in the sight of neighbours and passers‐by, perhaps you will enter my poor house, Centurion.’ ‘Willingly—I desire nothing better,’ was the reply. Masthlion, heaving a deep sigh, took his daughter by the hand and led the way along the inner passage. Martialis followed them into a small room, furnished simply with a table, some stools, and a couch; whilst, for ornament, some brackets and shelves bore a few exquisitely‐finished specimens of glasswork, together with some small figures sculptured in stone, the fruits of the potter’s self‐taught genius. From the door Masthlion called aloud for his wife, and she hastily appeared. She was a spare woman, with patient eyes. Her face had been comely, but was worn and faded with the hardship and anxiety of a long struggle against hunger and want in their early wedded life. A significant glance passed between her and her husband as she perceived what had occasioned the demand for her presence. She made a silent obeisance to the visitor, and waited for her husband to speak. As for Neæra, she stood with her head still bowed on her breast. Her lover’s tall, erect form, draped in its ample flowing cloak, seemed to fill the little room. His eyes rested with calm confidence on Masthlion, who began in grave measured tones:— ‘Wife, the Centurion Martialis hath told me that he loves our daughter.’ Here he paused a few moments, looking on the floor. ‘What we should tell him is this, that she is our only child, the one light of our house. But had we twenty, we must be assured, as far as possible, of good and honourable keeping ere we let one go from our roof. You understand this, Centurion?’