He had held much counsel with the good Father Eusebius, and knew that the Christian faith which he held dear had taken deep root in Hyacintha’s heart. And this had been at once the consolation and the fear of his life of late. Consolation, for he knew well what was the support of the Faith of Christ; fear, lest the sharp eyes which were directed towards the Vestal Maxima should scent out the truth, and that she should be given up by her accusers to disgrace. This had been assisted by Hyacintha’s resignation at the time when such resignation was allowed, and the love which she had awakened in the hearts of the many had triumphed over the maliciousness of the few. Anna was old now, and her strength did not hold out for the long walks in which little Cynthia at six years old delighted. So it fell to Claudius to drive her in his chariot, or take her hand in his and lead her along the Appian Way, telling her stories of the old heroes, as Clœlia had told them to Hyacintha and Casca long ago. But their favourite walk was to the Cælian Hill, and there sometimes they would meet Hermione on her way to the spring, when, dismissing the attendants who followed the Roman soldier and the fair child at a distance, they would sit and speak of the Vestal Maxima, and Hermione would fondle the little Cynthia, and say to Claudius “that she, too, might have been a Vestal, so beautiful she was, and so full of wit and cleverness.” “Ah, no! the child has another and a higher mission than that of the Vestal virgin. She will be the joy and glory of some good man’s home, so I pray the good Father of us all, who loves the little children.” “Who loves the little children,” Cynthia repeated, as she leaned against Claudius’s knee, her hands full of violets and anemones which empurpled the hill’s side. “When I am a woman I shall tell every one about the Lord, who was a little child Himself on earth, and loved the children who came near Him, just as I come near you, Claudius. Hermione, don’t you love Him?” Poor Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. She had not the courage to confess the Faith openly, which would needs draw upon her instant dismissal from her office, and end in imprisonment, and perhaps death. She was suspected, and jealously watched, by the Vestal Maxima; and nothing but the noble family from which she came, and the rich gifts which they constantly showered upon the temple of the goddess, could have saved her. “Don’t you love Him, Hermione? My aunt loved Him. Anna loves Him, and so does good Claudius. Father adores Him; he does not say he loves Him.” Hermione turned away her face. She was like thousands in those days of persecution, struggling out of the shadows into the light; scarcely prepared to give up all for Christ, and yet yearning after Him with that tender yearning which is the aspiration of the soul for One who, though unseen, it loves.