“Dear child!” Terentia said, “when I called you to rest by me, the thought was in my mind which you have put into words. “To-morrow, as you know, you will take up your full duties in the temple. The sculptor is to unveil my likeness in the pure marble in which it was wrought. It will not be placed with my noble predecessors till I resign my high office or die while holding it. Then it will be placed in either case in the atrium, and my name will be followed by whatsoever it may please the priest and the emperor to inscribe on the pedestal. But I shall leave on record that it is my will that you should be elected in my room, and that day may not be far off.” Hyacintha’s eyes sought those of Terentia anxiously. The joy of her announcement was tempered with sorrow. “You must not leave us yet,” she said; “you must not speak of it. And I am young and untried, and I fear----” “What dost thou fear, dear child?” “That many would consider others should take place before me.” “The future is hidden,” said Terentia. “I may live for years, instead of months; we will not speak more of this now. Hast thou any longing beside?” “Nay; except to hear of those I best love: Casca my brother, and my faithful Ebba.” “They are both converts to the Christian faith.” “Yes,” Hyacintha said, “and they have had peaceful times at Alexandria, whither they went with old Ezra. I have been hoping for news from Britain to reach me on this occasion of my full profession in the temple, but none has come.” “Thy father is now in the highest office in Verulam, and perchance may send a special messenger. He knows well that our festival is on the 9th of June, and it is possible some word may be sent.” “Dearest lady,” Hyacintha said, “does not all life seem like a dream?--everything passing, nothing staying. While we say ‘This is beautiful,’ it is gone; while we exult, the cause of exultation is over; while we weep, the grief or the vexation is vanishing. Did you ever feel as I do--as if I could not lay hold of, or grasp anything?” “Have I not felt it? Ah! child, a thousand times! But, sure, you have no grief to make you weep.” “Nay, not grief,” Hyacintha said; “not deep heart-grief, but vexations that arise in a large community like ours; and sometimes if I try to stem a torrent of gossip and bitterness the shafts turn on me, from the young disciple, child though she be, Cœlia, in particular. Not often,” she said, smiling, “not often, but sometimes. And now that I shall have to instruct those beneath me I feel there will be more trial.” “I do not think you will fail, dear one,” Terentia said; “you have had great success hitherto.”