"It was rashness—it was madness," said Cineas, understanding his sister's thought, "to meet myriads of savages with one legion. Suetonius is a general of a different stamp. He will take vengeance for all; and thoroughly too."

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No, no; he will be shut up in Mona!" said Helena, obstinate in her sorrow. She shuddered as she thought of what might be in store for her husband.

"If that were so," said Cineas, quietly, "there are fifty generals that would gladly undertake to relieve him. But think for a moment what kind of a man Suetonius is. Why, if he were shut up in Ultima Thule, he would force a way for himself back, and bring his army with him. No Roman general need fear disaster. All those who have met with misfortunes have incurred them by their own folly. But I will go on and tell the rest. The Britons, after defeating Cerealis, rolled on like a torrent, engulfing everything. They are advancing now toward Verulam and London. Decianus has fled from Britain, and is now in Gaul.”

"Fled! the procurator fled!" cried Helena, in amazement. "Yes; most of the troops, you know, are with Suetonius." "Why cannot he collect those who are scattered in the garrisons! Oh, the coward! the utter coward! After stirring up the wretched barbarians to madness, he dreads their vengeance. First a ruffian, then a coward." And Helena paced up and down in her restless and excited mood, chafing and fretting, and finding some relief in her indignation at Cerealis.

After a time, she came back to Cineas, and said,

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Cineas, if the procurator has fled, there is no hope for Suetonius."

"Hope-why, there is certainty," said Cineas, in as confident a tone as he could assume. "Think for a moment: a large number of military posts yet remain. These the Britons have not touched. Their garrisons can be collected into a large

army. The Britons cannot carry on a siege. They are too impatient. If they do not take a place at the first onset, they pass on to a weaker one. All that is left for Suetonius is to march back, to rally to his standard the scattered garrisons, and then march against the rebels. And tell me, what chance will they have if once a Roman army comes against them under such a general? I tell you"-and his voice grew more confident as he went on "I tell you, there is only one result possible, ruin to the rebels. Ruin-utter, complete, total!"

There was now a long silence. Brother and sister stood near to each other. Helena was occupied with her own thoughts. Cineas refrained from disturbing them. He had said all that he could.

The sun had risen and was illuminating the magnificent prospect. There lay Campania,-a vast plain, green with verdure, rich with groves and orchards, dotted with innumerable houses, increasing in their multitude till they were consolidated into the city itself. There wound the Tiber through the plain, passing on till it was lost in the distance. There appeared

"The Latian coast where sprung the epic war,
'Arms and the man,' whose reascending star

Rose o'er an empire; and upon the right

Tully reposed from Rome; and where yon bar

Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight,

The Sabine farm was tilled,-the weary bard's delight."

After a while, Helena, in her restless and troubled spirits, began to pace the portico as before. Cineas joined her, and walked by her side. Both walked for a time in silence.

As they passed the door, a figure darted back, as though to elude observation. He then went into the atrium; and, as Cineas and Helena passed up and down, he managed to station himself so as to hear the greater part of what they were saying. His complexion was swarthy; his eyes black, piercing, and sinister; his expression malevolent and cunning. He was very

large in stature, with powerful limbs, and his dress indicated This was the man who was

the rank of household steward.

acting the spy upon these two.

After a long pause, Cineas said, "Well, I suppose, I need not ask you what you are thinking of."

"I am thinking of Lucius," said Helena, with a heavy sigh. And then she half said and half sang to herself some mournful lines from a Greek chorus,

"Whom ceaselessly awaiting,

Bedewed with tears I go

My sad heart ever bearing

Its crushing weight of woe."

"Think Helena," said Cineas, "of what follows in the same song; let this at least be your comfort, if you will not believe my assurances; you know the words as well as I,

"Fear not, my child, be not afraid;

Great Zeus on high remains :
All things he sees with eyes divine,
And over all he reigns."

"Zeus!" said Helena, mournfully; "ah! there is the difficulty. My Zeus is the Zeus of philosophy, the Supreme One, the inconceivable, the unapproachable. All my life I have been taught to adore him, to worship him with awful reverence. But do you not see what an immeasurable distance arises to my sight, between me and him? O Cineas, there is something after all in the vulgar superstitions which makes me envy those who believe in them. See how the poor and illiterate man takes his God to himself, and prays to him, and is comforted while he prays. The common sailor, in a storm, makes his vow to his patron deity, and feels comfort; he thinks that he will finally escape, and hang up his votive tablet. But here am I in a worse storm, with no one to whom I can look, or make a Vow."

"Now," said Cineas, "you forget yourself. What! would you give up your own lofty conception of the one true God, for

all the silly fables of the vulgar religion? Let them keep their impure deities, their Apollo, their Neptune, their Mars, and their Hercules. We have been taught better, and can adore the great God of the Universe."

"Ah, but in sorrow, in sorrow, Cineas. How can we get to him? Can we believe that he will really notice us? The poor wife of some private soldier can perform her sacrifice, and pray to her god, who she thinks will help her. But how can I venture to tell my petty troubles to the Eternal One, or expect that he will hear me? No! No! Do you not remember these words,

"Seest thou not, my friend,

How feeble and how slow,

And like a dream they go,

This poor blind manhood drifted from its end,

And how no mortal wranglings can confuse
The harmony of Zeus?'"

"My Helena," said Cineas, gently, "your present troubles make you forget all the lessons of your youth. Why do you choose the most despairing utterances of the poets? Have you forgotten all our childhood and youth, and the sublime teachings of our glorious Theophilus? Do you not remember the divine teachings of our revered master, about the nature of God, of the immortality of the soul, of holiness, and of prayer? Dearest sister, never have I ceased to be grateful for my youth, when I had such a teacher to fill me with such thoughts, and you, too, for my associate and companion. When Labeo took you away, I felt that I had given up the half of my nature; since then, I have tried to keep up that ardent, youthful enthusiasm, that confidence in the Supreme, which we used to feel together. How is it with you? Have you lost it ?"

'Ah, Cineas, I have had a very different life from that of the enthusiastic girl whom you used to make the companion of your own aspirations and day-dreams. I have had a very different life from that which I used to lead in Athens."

"Do you call it dreaming, Helena ?" asked Cineas, with mild reproach in his voice-"all those aspirations after the good and the beautiful, that long search after the divine?"

"Forgive me, dearest brother," said Helena, laying her hand gently on his arm, and looking up with glistening eyes; "I did not mean that at all; I meant that, in my married life, I have had no time for philosophy. As a Roman matron, I have had to take my part in maintaining the honours of the house of Sulpicius Labeo. I have had to travel much. I have lived in Gaul, and especially Britain, for years. I have a son, whom I must train. Does this leave me much time, dearest Cineas, for philosophical abstraction? But yet I have never forgotten those early teachings. I honour and love the doctrines of the noble Theophilus. Who could forget 'The Master?' I never can, and I cherish deep within my memory the noble sentiments which he used to teach us. I love Plato and Pindar, and Æschylus, and Sophocles better than ever, and prize more than before those noble passages to which he used to direct our chief attention. I know large portions of them by heart now, as well as I used to in Athens. And yet, dearest brother, in this life of mine, and among all my occupations, all these give me no comfort. I know not how to approach the Supreme, and the great object of my life is how to find out the way. Can you tell me? Perhaps you can rid me of my greatest trouble. If you can, then tell me. You have advanced while I have stood still; you have preserved all your youthful enthusiasm for the Divine and the Holy. What way is there? Let me know it."

"You overrate my powers, dearest Helena," said Cineas, with deep thoughtfulness. "In a matter like this it is difficult to find anything like certainty. But I will tell you all that I

can.

"You believe, don't you, that God is wise and benevolent? He created all things. Is it not natural that he should at least