together, if need be. Let us hope for better things, however. God can
do all things.

"Amen," responded Virgilia. "But, Martius, things cannot continue as
they are now. Each morning, to please my mother, I weave the garlands
for the statues of the gods, I offer sweet oils and spices and
libations at the altar. I could not do otherwise while she was so ill.
Now, she is getting better. Tomorrow, or the next day, I must refuse
to do this. What will happen then?"

They had left the triclinium, and were walking slowly in the garden.
So tall was she that Virgilia's head was almost on a level with that
of her stalwart brother. Alyrus and Alexis had cleared the table,
watching with keen gaze the young people walking in the Pergola,
beneath the heavy grape vine, whose leaves, pierced by the sun, cast
queer shadows over Virgilia's white draperies and on her abundant
hair, which threw back glints of copper tints to mock the shifting
lights. Alyrus watched them because he hated them and longed for the
moment when he could wreak his revenge. Alexis looked at them in love,
for he, too, was a Christian, and the reason for the scene which
Claudia had made in the garden on the day when Martius returned from
exile, was well known to all the servants. In the dark corners of
their miserable quarters, they discussed the situation, wondering what
would happen. In these early days of Christianity, men and women often
worked side by side, never daring to make known that they were
Christians, for fear that the other might prove traitor. In this
household of Aurelius Lucanus and Claudia, there were three slaves who
were Christians, and one was Alexis, the Greek, but the others were
unaware of it. He waited now in silence, hoping to be able to help the
young son and daughter of his master. He, too, saw the shadow of