to whom Gallus was usually entrusted, to the rack. No
one could swim, no one could dive. It was long since I had made use of
an art which I once possessed, but instantly I cast off my upper
garments, and, needing no other direction to the true spot than the
barking of the little dog, and his jumping in and out of the
water--first learning that the water was deep, and of an even bottom, I
threw myself in, and, in a moment, guided by the white dress of the
little fellow, I grasped him, and drew him to the surface.

Life was apparently, and probably, to my mind, extinct; but expressing a
hope that means might yet be resorted to that should restore him, I bore
him in my arms to the house. But it was all in vain. Gallus was dead.

* * * * *

I shall not inflict a new sadness upon you, Fausta, by describing the
grief of my friends, or any of the incidents of the days and weeks I now
passed with them. They were heavy, and melancholy indeed; for the
sorrows, of both Lucilia and Marcus, were excessive and inconsolable. I
could do nothing for them, nor say anything to them in the hope to
comfort them; yet, while they were thus incapacitated for all action, I
could serve them essentially by placing myself at the head of their
affairs, and relieving them of common cares and duties, that must
otherwise have been neglected, or have proved irksome and oppressive.

The ashes of Gallus, committed to a small marble urn, have been
deposited in a tomb in the centre of Lucilia's flower garden, which will
soon be embowered by flowers and shrubs, which her hand will delight to
train around it.

On the eve of the day when I was to leave them and return to Rome, we
sat together in a portico which overlooks the Tiber. Marcus and Lucilia
were sad, but, at length, in some sort, calm. The first violence of
sorrow had spent itself, and reflection was beginning to succeed.

'I suppose,' said Marcus, 'your rigid faith greatly condemns all this
show of suffering, which you have witnessed, Piso, in us, as, if not
criminal, at least weak and childish?'

'Not so, by any means,' I rejoined. 'The religion of the Christians, is
what one may term a natural religion; it does violence to not one of the
good affections and propensities. Coming, as we maintain, from the
Creator of our bodies and our minds, it does them no injury, it wars not
with any of their natural elements, but most strictly harmonizes with
them. It aims t