the weary alternations of hope and fear. Two weeks
ago, however, all uncertainty had ended. The sword had fallen.
Propertius had published a series of poems boasting of his love,
scorning all the ideals of courage and manhood in which she had tried
to nurture him, exhibiting to Rome in unashamed nakedness the
spectacle of his defeated youth. Since the day when her slave had
brought home the volume from the book-store and she had read it at
night in the privacy of her bedroom, she had found no words in which
to speak to him about his poetry. Any hope that she had ever had of
again appealing to him died before his cruel lines:--

Never be dearer to me even love of a mother beloved,
Never an interest in life dear, if of thee I'm bereft.
Thou and thou only to me art my home, to me, Cynthia, only
Father and mother art thou--thou all my moments of joy.

He had, indeed, been affectionate toward her once more, and had made
a point of telling her things that he thought would please her. He
had even, some days before, seemed boyishly eager for her sympathetic
pleasure in an invitation to dine with Maecenas.

"I am made, mother," he said, "if he takes me up."

"_Made!_" she repeated now to herself. Made into what?

A friend had told her that the Forum was ringing with the fame of
this new writer, and that from the Palatine to the Subura his poetry
was taking like wildfire. She was dumb before such strange comfort.
What was this "fame" to which men were willing to sacrifice their
citizenship? Nothing in Rome had so shocked her as the laxity of
family life, the reluctance of young men to marry, the frequency of
divorce. She had felt her first sympathy with Augustus when he had
endeavoured to force through a law compelling honourable marriage.
Now, all that was best in her, all her loyalty to the traditions of
her family, rose in revolt against a popular favour which applauded
the rhymes of a ruined boy and admired the shameless revelations of
debauchery.

These plain words, spoken to herself, acted upon her mind like a tonic.
In facing the facts at their worst, she gained courage to believe
that there must still be something she could do, if she could only
grow calmer and think more clearly. She stopped her restless walking,
and, taking a chair, forced herself to lean back and rest. The
afternoon was growing dark, and a servant was beginning to light the
lamps. In the glow of the little yellow flames Pan seemed to