‘Father, is it you?’ called the glad tones of Neæra’s voice.
A bolt was drawn, the door opened, and the girl herself stood in the entrance, holding a light above her head, whilst she peered beneath, with eager expectation written on her face.
‘No, my pretty wench, it is not your father, that’s very sure,’ quoth Plautus, as he came forward out of the darkness into the feeble light thrown by the lamp.
Neæra, with a cry of alarm, started back at the sight of the shrouded figure and the harsh features of the speaker.
‘Stop,’ he said, making good his entrance inside the shop; ‘don’t be afraid nor run away. If I’m not your father, I’ve come from your father—that is, if you are the daughter of Masthlion the potter.’
‘I am,’ said the disappointed girl, whose anxiety to learn of the absent one struggled against feminine suspicion and timidity of the ill-favoured visitor. ‘What have you to tell me of him? Why does he not come home? When is he coming?’
‘For a particular reason he has not come home; nor is he coming yet. That is why he has sent me to bring you to him. To speak truth, he is taken very ill, and you are bidden to go back with me, straightway, to tend him.’
‘That shall be my business,’ said a voice behind; ‘ill, did you say—my husband ill?’
‘Eh!’ ejaculated Plautus, scanning the wrinkled anxious face of Tibia as she came forward; ‘are you his wife?’
‘Yes,’ cried Neæra for her, in great agitation; ‘tell us, good sir, if he is very ill—speak quickly and tell us all.’