“It would make a deal of gossip,” Quartilla declared. “All my enemies would say that I am an unnatural mother, that I do not love my youngest child, that I hate her, that I am exposing her to certain death, that I am as bad as a murderess.” “Nonsense!” her husband retorted. “We can’t bother about all the malice of all the slanderers in Rome. Other people’s daughters are remaining. Lucconius means to stay here in Rome with his family. If he ventures to keep Flexinna here we might venture to leave Brinnaria behind.” “You might,” that self-assertive child cut in, “and you know there is really no use in taking me if I do not want to go. You know how much trouble it will make for both of you.” Quartilla sighed. “Perhaps we had best leave her,” she said. “Certainly the house will be safe and the slaves kept in order. I shan’t have an instant’s anxiety about that. Then Brinnaria is so genuinely brave that she will really not dread the pestilence, and all the doctors say that there is nothing like that feeling to protect any one from the danger. She makes me feel that she will be safe. I don’t believe I’ll worry about that either.” “Fine!” Brinnaria squealed. “I’m to stay.” “Not so fast,” her father rebuked her. “I haven’t said yet that you may stay. But if I say so, then you must stay. I’ll not have you changing your mind and deciding to leave Rome after we have arranged to put you in charge here. It would make trouble indeed to have you shutting up this house in a hurry and chasing after us to Carsioli.” “Epulo!” his wife reproached him, “the child has her faults, but changeableness is not one of them. She is the most resolute child I ever knew. If you leave her, she will not fail us. If she gives her word she will keep it. I never knew Brinnaria to break an earnestly made promise.” “Will you promise?” her father asked her. “I promise,” Brinnaria shouted, “I pledge myself. I take oath. I swear by my love of both of you, by my respect for our clan, by my hopes of marrying Almo, that I’ll stick it out here in Rome, going out only when necessary, unless you send for me to come away. If anything happens that makes me think I ought to leave the city I shall send a message to you, but I shall not cross the city boundaries nor relax my watch on this house without your permission. I swear.” “That’s enough, dearie,” her father said, “enough and too much. If your judgment tells you that you ought to flee from Rome, you have my permission to send me a messenger; I know you will not resort to that without real need. I rely on your judgment. The gods be with you, child. You have taken a load of my shoulders, two loads, in fact.”