nderstanding all that his words and tone implied, gave
him a glance of mute reproach. He took Varia's hand, as she stood near
him, and patted it.

"I am glad to know thee, dear child," he said gently. "Thy father I have
known these many years, but thou wert a little baby when I saw thee
last. Perhaps he has not told thee that I am a friend of his, and this
is my son."

And Varia, for the first time, looked into Marius's face, and smiled,
saying nothing at all. She sat on the edge of the couch, the ball in her
lap.

"Where have you been, child?" Eudemius asked.

"In the garden, playing ball. I am going to play again," she answered,
and never thought to wonder why he frowned.

But Marius came over to the couch.

"Will you let me play also?" he asked, with a faint note of amusement in
his voice. "Perhaps I can show you a game you do not know, which
soldiers play in camp. When they have no ball, like yours, they take a
lump of bread, that is round, and very hard, and will keep for months
without spoiling, and they play with that."

Varia jumped up.

"I should like that!" she said eagerly. "I cannot show you any game, for
I know none that are interesting; but I can learn yours!"

The two went out into the courtyard, side by side. Livinius said, in his
gentle voice:

"She is a dear child."

And Eudemius answered:

"She is a bad bargain dearly bought," and turned his face away from the
window.

Varia wearied of the new game shortly, and sat down beside the fountain
to rest, with a frank intimation that her companion might go back to the
house. This he showed no intention of doing, but threw himself on the
grass beside her, and set himself the task of making her talk. He
studied her curiously; he had seen much of many women in many lands, but
none who were quite like her. Her utter simplicity was baffling;
artificial himself, brought up in a civilization which was artificial,
he could not get it out of his mind that it was not a pose. Very soon he
got her mental calibre; with it got also certain surprises. She was
all-innocent; yet, at times, when she sat with hands clasping her knees
and looked past him, without speech or motion, as regardless of him as
though he had not been there, he caught a hint in her eyes of something
he could not read. It was as though she struggled to recall a memory of
something gone by,--something sweet yet unholy which she did not
understand, would not ask about, and could not forg