know how. His Roman pride prevented him from making the first advances, and Julius could not come to him. Thus he struggled with his grief for a long time, until at last he could bear it no longer.

One day he visited Cineas, and talked in his usual strain about the evils of the time. He inveighed bitterly against Nero, and enumerated all his crimes. Finally, he spoke of the persecution of the Christians as the most abominable of all his acts, and declared that the virtue of the Christians was fully proved to his mind by the fact that they were singled out by Nero for his vengeance. Had they been what he once supposed, they would never thus have suffered.

Cineas listened to all this in surprise and in joy. He thought that he might perhaps be able to bring together the father and the son; he was rejoiced to think that there was such happiness in store for his friend, and was wondering how he could best bring about a meeting, when old Carbo, who had been silent for some time, suddenly came over to where Cineas was, and, in a voice which was scarce audible, and broken by emotion, exclaimed,—

66

Cineas, you know where he is. Take me to him."

That settled all the difficulty. Right gladly Cineas consented. They set off immediately to that place where Julius had been so long, and soon reached it. Carbo shuddered as he descended, and walked through the gloomy labyrinth, and thought that this was the place to which his son had been banished. And for what? For integrity, for true religion, and for virtue.

At last the father found the son. Leaving Carbo behind, Cineas brought Julius to him. Julius came, pale and haggard as he now had grown, bearing about him the marks of a wretched life, with his pallid countenance rendered more so by the dim torch-light. Carbo looked at him for a moment, and then caught him in his arms.

"Oh, my son!" he murmured, and burst into a flood of

tears.

"Father," said Julius, who was affected to an equal degree, "I knew all the time that you forgave me."

But Carbo now began cursing himself for his weakness, and tried to check his tears; but then, looking again at his son, fresh tears came to his eyes, till at last he sat down and buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

Now that the old man had found his son, and taken him back to his heart, he could not endure the thought of further separation. He was anxious for Julius to leave instantly, and come home. He offered to protect him against all danger; and Julius smiled sadly and lovingly, as the old man declared that he would lay down his life for his son if any one tried to arrest him.

"I know you would, father, as I would for you; but I have other things to consider. It is not fear of myself that keeps me here. I don't have any. I could easily elude any pursuers. But there are some here who cannot do so. They are less active, and more timid than I am. We who are strong have to bear the burdens of the weak. That is our religion. Some of these poor, timid souls would not dare to quit this place. While there is a single dear child of Christ in this place, I must stay, and help, and comfort him. It is the duty of some to teach; it is my duty to protect the fearful and the weak. And I think I have done some little for them."

Carbo's eyes glistened as he looked on his son, and heard these sentiments.

"Heaven help them, boy, if they lose you! I understand you. I must yield. It is hard. But I can say nothing. If I were a young man I would turn Christian, and come here and help you. You are living gloriously, my noble boy. But will I never see you? Must I go back and live without you? Will you let your old father die, and not come near him?"

"I will come and see you whenever I can," said Julius. "I will spend days with you. Soon, perhaps, I will be able to stay at home. Be patient, dear father. Think of what I have We will meet often now. Thank God that this misunderstanding is over."

to do.

Julius kept his word. His visits to his father were frequent, and sometimes protracted. He never encountered any danger. The new life, and the partial deliverance from the gloom and damp of the vaults, had a marked effect. His pallor changed into a fresher hue, and his spirit became brighter.

But there was one thing which exercised a more powerful effect for good than even the bright air and sunshine and reconciliation with his father.

There was one who always looked out for his visits, and counted the days of his absence, and heard the sound of his voice with a beating heart-one whose whole being, from which all other ties had been torn, now turned fondly to him, and found in him the great consolation of life. Lydia.

This was

The visits of Julius grew more and more protracted in length. Much of his time was passed at Labeo's villa. His father followed him there. When Julius was away the old man would come there, knowing that the place was dear to his boy, and longing to speak to some one about him. Sometimes Cineas was the one whom he selected; but he soon found another hearer who was never tired of hearing him speak on his one theme, who was willing to listen for hours, and prompt him, and incite him with questions. Carbo found a charm in this listener that he knew nowhere else. And so at last he came to Labeo's house every day, to talk of his one theme to Lydia.

He ceased railing at Rome, and his former bitterness and cynicism had departed, and given way to a milder temper and a gentler mood. The stern face with its military air, and the mild voice with which he always addressed himself to Lydia.

sometimes reminded her of her own father, and made her love the father of Julius.

Time passed on, and Julius began to recover his former robust and energetic health. Life had become sweet. The catacombs were only used at times in sudden fear. The most timid had ventured forth, and had resumed their former lives. At last Julius was able to remain altogether at his father's house. Now Julius and Lydia were near one another. Bound together by common remembrance of suffering endured in common, it seemed at last as though their sorrows were over for a time.

All the nature of Julius had been pervaded by the influence of that fair young girl. He had seen her in her humble garret, where she used to live with her father; he had watched her in the gloomy catacombs, where she had closed her father's eyes. He had saved her life over and over.

Out in the free air once more, he could not endure the thought of only the slight separation that now kept them apart. Life was dull and unmeaning till she was with him to share all. He could not wait even till his safety was secured.

If I wait till then, I must wait till I die. She shall take me as I am, in danger, and with death before me, and we will share the same fate, whatever it is. As long as I am a Christian this lot will be mine. And what is more, she is in the same danger.

ness.

So Lydia was taken from her life of dependence and loneliCarbo's house, though humble in comparison with others, seemed like a palace to Lydia. Her presence made it brighter and more radiant in the eyes of Julius. The old man had need no longer to travel to Labeo's house to find one to whom he could talk about his boy. The wife of Julius loved that theme better than any other, and so happily did the days of Carbo pass, that he seemed to have renewed his youth, and at last did not know which he loved best, his son, or his new daughter.

XXX.

The Chief Martyr.

HEN the Christians of Rome were thus beginning to

breathe freely again, and to return to their former avocations with some degree of security, the little community was filled with joy by an event which was to them of the greatest importance.

This was no less a thing than the arrival of the great apostle among them.

With him came Philo, who had accompanied him everywhere in his wanderings, and who now seemed paler, weaker, but, in spite of all that, more ardent and energetic than ever.

Many were the stories which these poor afflicted ones in Rome had to tell of their persecutions and sufferings. In the relief which they now had from the weight of oppression, they were yet conscious of danger. That danger they all saw was most likely to fall on the very eminent ones, and of them all the most eminent by far was Paul.

For him they feared. They entreated him to save himself from danger by quietness and obscurity. But Paul's nature did not allow him to do this. He had passed his life in encountering perils, and as he fully expected to die at some time or other for his religion, he was as ready to lay down his life in Rome as in any other place.

He therefore continued his labours with the utmost publicity, and in all respects acted just as if the Christians were tolerated