“Not to-night. I shall never sleep if I rehearse it. I could not go over it again. Who are below?” he asked, as the sounds of music and singing came from the atrium. “A few guests, some that my father brought home; no ladies but my mother.” “Is not Junia there, the sister of Claudius?” “No, unless she has arrived since I left the banqueting-hall. I would not stay, though father prayed me to sing to the lute. I could not stay, because I wanted to find thee.” “Dear little sister,” Casca said, “I would not be rough to thee.” “Thou art never rough, brother,” was the answer, “and I love thee dearly. I only wish I knew more of thy secrets. May I stay with thee?” “Yes, draw that stool to the window, and pull the curtain aside. I like to see the sky and the stars.” Hyacintha obeyed, and waited for what her brother would say next; he was contemplating the graceful outline of her head against the sky, as, with her elbow on the deep stone ledge of the window, her cheek resting upon her hand, she made a study any artist might long to put on canvas. Hyacintha waited patiently for her brother to speak, and at last he broke the silence, though not in the way she expected. “I am a bitter disappointment to our father, Hyacintha, a poor, puny weakling like me; there are times when I long for death, to be free of this life. It may be that the gods would be merciful to me and give me the strength hereafter I lack here. But to-day, when I saw death, I shuddered and swooned. I am a wretched coward, with no power to live, and no power to die.” Hyacintha’s eyes filled with tears. What comfort had a heathen to offer in all these exigencies of life and death? What could Hyacintha say to throw any light or hope over her brother’s darkness? Though but a child, she had heard much, from the grown-up people with whom she associated, of the world, and the pleasures of dance and song, and the games and all the luxuries and refinements of life, which were supposed to be a cure for heart-aches and trials. But Ebba had talked of feeding the hungry, nursing the sick, and clothing the naked, as a way to be happy. She said this man, Alban, had done these things, and that there was always a light on his face which was not shed there by any of the pleasures in which others indulged. Poor Hyacintha’s mind was all confused and bewildered; she almost wished she could be gay and careless like Junia, whose voice, singing a familiar song, now sounded from the atrium. She began dimly to grasp the fact that something was wanted to make life different from the life her mother led, and many ladies, who frequented the atrium and lay on the luxurious couches there, and toyed with their bracelets and ornaments. “I will pray my father,” Hyacintha thought “that I may go to Rome, and be trained for a priestess, in the temple of Vesta. Yes, I will pray him that I may do this, then I shall be happier far, for it will be doing something grand and noble.”