The old man rose from his seat and walked across the room and back. Here was a problem as startling as it was simple, since, strange to say, it had never by any chance been suggested to his thoughts. His mind, up to this moment, had been thoroughly filled, and absorbed to the exclusion of every other reflection, by the picture of the ill‐fated child as he had last seen her, say, dancing about his room, or sporting with her ball in the garden, as he passed out on a visit or a walk. ‘My little maid a woman of seventeen!’ he repeated again in a bewildered manner. ‘Not so strange as that you should expect to find her as she was,’ observed Martialis; ‘stature increases, and form changes and develops; eyes alter, and hair changes in hue with years.’ ‘That is true,’ said Fabricius absently. ‘Well then, how would you prove her identity?’ ‘My heart would tell me!’ replied the other fervently. Martialis shook his head gently. ‘You cannot believe it—is not instinct unerring?’ cried Fabricius. ‘It can lead a mother to choose her child after a woful gap of years.’ ‘A mother maybe,’ said Martialis, doubtingly. ‘And, if I brought not the girl into the world, I tended her; I was father and mother in one to her—she was my sole care and I lived in her—yes, I should know her.’ ‘Heaven grant you may have the opportunity.’ The subject then dropped, and Martialis was not sorry, for he saw how painful it was to his host. To entertain his visitor Fabricius then proceeded to show his house and his treasures of art, his gardens and the noble prospect therefrom. His interest in his young acquaintance and preserver seemed to quicken his vivacity and cheerfulness in a wonderful degree, and he drew upon his stores of knowledge and anecdote in a manner which delighted his listener. The young soldier was easily led on, in this way, toward the old man’s dinner‐hour, and found himself duly partaking of a meal more varied and splendidly served than was usual with his host’s simple and solitary habits. They had reclined at table but a few minutes when Afer was ushered in, bearing on his face the signs of extreme solicitude. ‘Praise be to the gods, uncle!’ said he, stooping over the couch and taking the old man in his arms; ‘praise be to the gods,—I find you eating and cheerful, and so I know you have suffered little. The murderous thieves! I have but just returned, and have come straight from my house, when I was told of the treachery which had befallen you. A fine thing, in truth, to happen to a citizen. Nay, I will neither bite nor sup until you assure me you are no worse.’ ‘No worse, nephew; thanks to the Centurion there. I was only stunned, and find I am tougher than I thought. Nephew, this is the Centurion Martialis who befriended me—I have discovered also that he is of Latian stock, and son of an old playfellow of Casinum. Martialis, this is my nephew, Titus Afer.’