“Good Claudius,” the commander of many brave troops of soldiers, the noble, valiant, and courageous warrior, became in his old age gentle and subdued; but his deeds of valour had not died out of the remembrance of some who had shared in them; and in his retirement at Alexandria he was sometimes visited by those who had some connection with him as a leader or companion in arms. One day, when Cynthia was about fifteen, eight or nine years after the voyage to Rome and the death of the Vestal Maxima, Claudius was walking slowly and feebly along the smooth walks of the Museum gardens, waiting for Cynthia to return from one of the academies, where, attended by one of her maids, she studied with several young maidens, under a lady who lectured upon the Greek poets and the Greek authors of a bygone time. Casca’s anxious desire that his only child should be distinguished for accomplishments of every kind, and have her mental gifts cultivated to the utmost, was not likely to be disappointed. Cynthia was already known as one of the most promising of Zoe’s pupils, and she seemed to have no difficulty in acquiring and retaining knowledge. On this lovely spring morning, Claudius, being a little weary, seating himself on a bench near one of the principal fountains, which made a soft musical murmur as the waters fell into a deep marble basin, turned suddenly as he heard his name. A man about his own age, leaning on the arm of a youth of eighteen or twenty, advanced towards him. “Sure,” he said, “I see before me Claudius, who commanded the fourth legion under Constantius?” The two old men stood facing each other silently for a few moments, and then grasped each other’s hands. “I never expected to meet you, brave Claudius, again, least of all at Alexandria.” “And I, my noble friend and old ally, Varrus, never expected to grasp your hand in mine again. Methought you lived at Marseilles?” “Ay, and I have left it only for a short space, to bring hither to this seat of learning my only son, Heraclitus, who craved for the schools of wisdom here, and desires to add the learning of the scholar to the courage of the soldier. And here, my son,” he continued, “is as brave a soldier as ever wielded a sword, the good and valiant Claudius.” “It seems that I see your father again in you,” Claudius said. “Varrus, you live again in your boy.” “Ah! and I have two fair daughters, whom I have left with their mother at Marseilles; and here, if I mistake not, comes one of yours.” For at that moment, speeding towards the place where Claudius sat, came the graceful figure of a young girl, dressed in pure white silk, her over-mantle of pale greenish-blue, and a handkerchief embroidered with gold, in the familiar pattern we call the “key pattern,” thrown over her sunny head. “Nay, I have no ties of home, Varrus; I never married. She who is coming towards us is as dear as any daughter. Why does she tarry?”