She had withered under the cold breath of the north country, and the rude luxury of the Briton’s home had been little in harmony with the early life Cornelia had spent in Italy. She had died and left her husband disconsolate, with two children on his hands, whom he found it hard to manage. They united the bold daring of the Briton with the quick, hot passions of the Italian, and before Junia was fifteen she had thrust a stiletto, in a fit of rage, into the breast of a slave, and killed her! To our notions this dreadful act would have brought upon the girl a lifelong misery, and she would have been for ever withdrawn from the society of her friends and relations. But it was widely different then. The sharp and highly-polished stiletto was always at hand, and a prick from it, which drew blood, was frequently administered to a careless or idle slave. If the wound had by chance been deeper than was intended--well, it was only the loss of a piece of property, and the master would bear it! One slave, more or less, was not of very great moment to a wealthy proprietor. And the slave herself, unless, as in the case of Ebba, who had suited the whims of her mistress, was scarcely missed. Junia was a bold, dark-eyed girl, with the free and confident manner which was sufficiently dangerous in a society like that in which she moved. She was conscious that her British extraction on one side placed her on a lower level than the proud Roman ladies of Verulam, but if conscious of it, she never showed it, and was perfectly unabashed and self confident. Junia now threw herself down by Cæcilia’s side, and tossing back the broad red ribbon which confined her hair, she exclaimed, “So the faithful Ebba, the paragon of perfection, is gone. What will you do without her services, fair Cæcilia?” “I have other maidens at hand,” said Cæcilia, coldly. “They are skilful.” “Yes, doubtless,” Junia said, laughing, and showing a row of white teeth. “Yes, let her go, I say; but I know the noble Severus will have her head. I only hope it will not come in alone, but have company.” And again there was a ringing laugh. “And tell me, beautiful Cæcilia, is it true that Hyacintha is to be sent to Rome?” “Yes, Hyacintha is to go to Rome without delay,” Cæcilia answered. “To be trained for a priestess to the goddess Vesta?” “I think it may be so.” “Alas! What a doleful life for the lovely maiden--a priestess--no marriage for her, no love, no freedom. I would rather be buried at once in one of the subterranean places they tell us so much of.” “My daughter is of tender years,” said Cæcilia. “She will at present only be educated under the care of her father’s aunt--the noble Terentia Rufilla. The hall of the Vestals is no mean home. They have everything that is meet for the children of noble Romans. And,” continued Cæcilia, with a languid air of pride, “be it remembered that Vestals can only be chosen from the noblest houses of pure, unmixed descent.” Junia laughed.