“She was our only one! Our one beloved treasure! Many children were born to us before her, but it was not Jupiter’s will that they should grow up. They were all poor little mites, born thin and puny, and with big heads. They lived for about two years, tottered round the yard on their poor, weak little legs, and then died. Lydia was the last. At her birth she was so thin and fragile that we never hoped she would grow up. Besides, I was already turned forty, and my old man was getting on for sixty; what sort of children can one expect to have at that time of life! But, somehow, the gods took pity on our lonely old age. Lydia began to improve and get strong. Ye gods! How we loved her and caressed her and spoiled her! Her father simply worshipped her, and strictly forbade me ever to punish her. For that matter there was never any reason to punish her, she was quiet and thoughtful, and always alone in a corner, away from other children. Even when nearly grown up, she never wanted girl friends. ‘I want no one but you,’ she would say, embracing us lovingly. She always sat at home, and could not be induced to join in any gaieties. She had only one passion—the Vestal Virgins. Often and often she went to gaze at them and admire them, weeping bitter tears because she was not one of them, and carrying flowers to the shrine of the goddess Vesta. We greatly feared, my old man and I, that she would never consent to marry. We longed to see our grand-children, and besides, we wanted an heir to carry on the business. My old man is the best jeweller in Rome. All the great people give us orders, and our things are highly valued. My husband found a suitable son-in-law, also in the jeweller’s business—but we did not dare to tell Lydia. She was so proud, and would never look at men. And oh! how beautiful she was! Pale, like marble, with her thin little face, her large, grey eyes, and her heavy dark tresses. All the young men were in love with her, but she would have nothing to say to any of them. Then, all of a sudden, those accursed Jews appeared. They used to live quietly on the other side of the Tiber, until one day when they all seemed to have become possessed. Over they came, swarms of them, telling some story of a new God of theirs, born somewhere in Palestine, and asking everyone to believe in Him. Dirty, miserable wretches, disgusting in their filthy rags, gesticulating, excited, really quite absurd. Beggars, you know, but with the pretensions of Emperors. Of course, old people only laughed at them. As if anyone would dream of changing his religion in his old age! But the young people began to be interested, and to go to the Jews’ meetings. Those miserable wretches spoke so passionately—just as if they really had seen a great new God! Lydia went once too, and came home all of a tremble with emotion. At first we were pleased, because her passion for the Vestal Virgins seemed to have cooled. But our joy was short-lived.