"But Julius," he said, in conclusion. "Believe me, I am not one who brings up a score of petty objections to a pure and elevated religion for an idle purpose. I am distressed. I am perplexed. I wish that this Christianity of yours could be made acceptable to me. But it cannot be.

"Go on as you propose. My heart shall be with you. I will stand where I am, and in my doubt will still pray to Him, and if, as I have always believed, he indeed hears prayer, then surely he will at some time hear mine, feeble though it be, if not in this life, yet perhaps in the next."

Julius seized the hand of his friend, and pressed it earnestly:

"There are many prayers ascending for you, and He who has promised to hear all prayer, will surely hear those which bear up your name to his ears. As to this question about sin, I can only say that I once thought as you do, but lately I seem to have received a great light in my soul, and have seen that I am sinful. Whatever you may be, I at least needed all that Christ has done. I deserved suffering; he bore it for me. I believe in him, and give myself up to him, for this life and for the life to come."

"This light that comes to your mind," said Cineas, "is something that I have never experienced. I must move on in obedience to a logical process. I must obey reason above all things. A theory stated in so many words is not enough, I must test it. If it will not stand questioning, how am I to receive it? But I will talk no more of myself. Think of me as one who approves of what you are doing, and who deems you happier than himself. It has been my lot to see Christianity bringing peace and comfort to many minds that had been disturbed by much sorrow. It brings happiness. May you possess all the happiness that it can give."

"That happiness will yet be yours, too, my best of friends, I doubt not. A longer time will be needed, but you will at last see the truth as it is in Jesus."

XXII.

SON AND FATHER.

HEN Julius informed his father of his decision he met with a storm of indignant rebuke. The old man hated Christianity because it came from Syria. He indulged in his usual strain of invective against the vices of the age, and declared that Syria had ruined all things.

"Don't tell me," he cried, "that Christianity is different. It cannot be. It is impossible for any good thing to come out of Syria. The people are incurably vicious. From immemorial ages it has been the chosen seat of all vice, and profligacy, and obscenity. You are deceived, foolish boy. You are beguiled by a fair exterior. Wait till you learn the actual practice of these Christians. For my part I believe all that the people say about them. I believe that they indulge in horrid vices in their secret meetings, in those out of the way places where no honest man ever thinks of going. Don't tell me I am wrong. I am right, and I know it. You will find this out some day. There is nothing but foulness in everything Syrian. Rome is full of it. What other curse has Rome but this? most infamous scoundrels in the city and ask them where they come from. There is only one place, Syria."

Go to all the

So the old man morosely railed on. Nothing could induce him to listen to the explanation of Julius. Nothing could make him think that the Christians were in any way different from the followers of other Syrian superstitions, with which the city was filled. He menaced Julius with his fiercest wrath. He swore he would disown him, cast him

off, and curse him. There was an excited and painful interview. The old man stormed. Julius entreated to be heard, but in vain. At last he told his father, mildly, that he was a man, responsible only to himself, and would do this, whatever the consequences might be. Whereupon old Carbo turned purple with rage, bade him begone, and cursed him to his face.

Julius went away sadly, but his conscience sustained him. A father's curse was a terrible thing, but he knew that the impetuous old man would one day relent. He could not maintain anger or malice for any length of time. So the son expected some future time of reconciliation. Carbo would see his error, and be willing to receive his son back again to his heart.

Thus Julius joined himself to the Christians, whom he had learned to love, and whose faith he at last fully received. When once he had entered that society, and become an acknowledged follower of Christ, he found greater happiness than ever he had known before. He now fully shared the hopes, the fears, the sorrows, and the joys of this little community, who were still small in number, but felt that they possessed the Truth that came down from God. And what else on earth could he desire beside this? Honor, and power, and wealth, seemed poor in comparison with that which he really possessed.

Paul had been in Rome for nearly three years, and at length decided to depart, leaving this young Roman church to the care of other hands and to God. Other countries demanded his services. He had told the people of his intention, and they, though sorely distressed at the thought of losing him, nevertheless fully believed that the apostle followed the voice of God, and meekly acquiesced. They would not claim all the labors of Paul for themselves. They knew that other lands needed him, and in their earnest desire for the salvation of other souls, they were willing to let

him go,

Others went with him, but chief among his followers was Philo. In the months that had succeeded his mother's death he had returned to his former calm. Still troubled often by his ever-recurring remorse, he thought the best antidote to grief would be found in incessant action. He gave himself up with the most ardent devotion to the cause which he loved. As the world was nothing to him, he fixed his heart and his thoughts with peculiar intensity on the world on high. In the yearning of his soul he thought that the spirit of his mother might yet regard him, and that the love which she had borne still lived in her heart, in the new life which she had found.

He himself was but weak and feeble. Either from excessive nervousness, which he had inherited from his mother, or from the results of early dissipation, or the grief of later years, or from all these combined, his constitution was shattered, and his pale, emaciated face, and glowing eyes showed that in his frame he carried the seeds of death. Yet in spite of suffering, and weakness, he labored incessantly, and chose to accompany Paul, because he knew that with such a leader he would encounter the greatest peril, and be summoned to the severest labor.

XXIII.

THE BURNING OF ROME.

N one memorable evening Lydia and her father were together in their room, and Lydia at her father's request was reading that letter which Paul had written to the Christians at Rome before his visit, and which had always been prized by them most highly.

The centurion sat in deep attention lost in thought, and in such a profound abstraction that he thought of nothing except those divine words which fell upon his But the reader was strangely disturbed and often

ears.

paused.

For outside there arose strange, mysterious sounds, the voices of a vast multitude, and mingled cries of fear and excitement. It was as though all the population of the city had gone forth into the streets on some great purpose, but under some such impulse as fear. For the cries were wild and startling, and panic reigned and terror was stalking abroad.

In vain Lydia tried to read calmly. Calmness was impossible when the clamor grew every moment louder and louder, and outside the cries of men were borne to her ears, and inside, in every part of the vast edifice in whose topmost story they lived, there was the noise of people hurrying to and fro, and loud calls from one to another in tones of fear, and all the signs of universal trepidation and alarm.

At last a lurid glow flashed into the chamber, and Lydia started, and cast a fearful glance out of the window. The