been seventeen and fifteen respectively, ran gaily to meet him. A woman some twenty-five years older, but still youthful of aspect and handsome, followed at a more sober pace. “What is the matter, father?” cried the elder of the girls, who had been quick to perceive that all was not right. The centurion held up his hand and made a signal for silence. “Hush,” he said; “I have something to tell you, but it must not be here. Let us go indoors.” “Shall the children leave us alone?” said the centurion’s wife, who had now come up. “No,” he answered, wearily, “let them be with us while they can,” he added in a low voice, which only the wife’s ears, made keenly alive by affection and fear, could catch. The gaiety of the young people was quenched, for, without having any idea of what had happened, they could see plainly enough that something was disturbing their parents; and it was with fast beating hearts that they waited for his explanation. “Our happy days here are over, my dearest,” said the centurion, drawing his wife to him, and tenderly kissing her, as soon as they were within doors. “You mean,” said she, “that the order has come.” “Yes,” he answered, “we are to leave as soon as the transports can be collected. The resolution was made to-day and will be announced to the army to-morrow. It is no secret, I suppose, or will not be for long.” “And where are we to go?” cried the elder of the girls, whose face brightened as the thought of seeing a little more of the world, of a home in one of the cities of Gaul, possibly in Rome itself, flitted across her mind. The poor centurion changed colour. The girl’s question brought up the difficulty which he knew had to be faced, but which he would gladly have put off as long as he could. “We shall go to Gaul, certainly; where I cannot say,” he answered, after a long pause, and in a hesitating voice. “Oh, how delightful!” cried the girl; “exactly the thing that Lucia and I have been longing for. And Rome? Surely we shall go to Rome, father? Are you not glad to hear it, mother? I am sure that we are all tired of this cold, foggy place.” The mother said nothing. If she did not exactly see the whole of the situation, she had at least an housewife’s horror of a move. The poor father moved uneasily upon his chair. “The legion will go,” he said, “but your mother and you——” “Oh, Lucius,” cried the poor wife, “you do not, cannot mean that we are not to go with you!” “Nothing is settled,” he replied, “it is true; but I am much troubled about it. _You_ might go, though I do not like the idea of your following the camp; but these dear girls—and yet they cannot be separated from you.”