‘But my father, Caius Julius Martialis,’ continued the young man, ‘first saw the light near to Casinum, as his forefathers did before him for generations.’ ‘Caius Martialis thy father!’ cried Fabricius, seizing the young man’s hand with intense joy, ‘Caius thy father—he was my playfellow, boy, in those happy, sunny days long ago! Together we made the summer‐day trips and climbed the hills; and then, while yet a lad, I was sent to Rome and I saw him no more. And thou art his son—thou, that didst save his old playfellow’s life—how my heart warms to thee! I warrant thou art the living image of him, though I never saw him in his manhood. But his boyish frame shaped like thine—tall, spare, sinewy, and as strong as a young lion: and what of him, Centurion; is he alive yet—tell me?’ ‘Dead these ten years,’ replied Martialis. ‘Then I was not fated to see him again on this earth. We loved each other as playfellows; but I shall not be long after him. I am a lonely old man, who has outlived his time; thou wilt not forget me for the little time that is left me to breathe and live? Ah, if the gods had preserved me a son like thee!’ The young man’s heart softened to see the mingled emotions which swelled the stately Senator’s breast, and he heartily returned the vigorous clasp of his hands. ‘You are yet hale and strong, and such a friend as I can be, I hope to be, for many a year to come,’ he answered. ‘The end cannot be far away now,’ said Fabricius, shaking his head. ‘I stand in no fear of it, for in truth I have nothing left to live for. The gods preserve thee from a solitary old age such as mine. This gloomy house was once bright and happy enough; death has reaped a rich harvest in its walls. One boy, Titus, came home to die from wounds received from the barbarian in Pannonia; an ill‐fated galley, bearing another, foundered on its way to Hispania; a third was yet a child when he left us. One girl reached the most winsome years, when a malignant disease carried her suddenly off and left us heartbroken; the last daughter lived and was married, and died in giving birth to her first babe—my only grandchild. That little maid, Centurion, was beauty and sweetness itself; it was all that was left me—wife and children all gone. She frisked about these halls, lightening them like a sunbeam; she had begun to lisp our names and prattle like the sweetest woodland music—ah me!’ ‘Died she too, Fabricius?’ asked Martialis, after a short pause. ‘I know not whether she lives or is dead,’ muttered the old man; ‘to me she is dead—fourteen years ago she vanished on one accursed day, and no tidings of her have ever reached us since.’ ‘Alas, that was too cruel!’ murmured the other.