"Yes, as thou didst not come back, I sought for thee; it is always so between us. The boy sleeps; I laid him in my bed. I found you both so deep in conversation, that you did not hear my step on the soft garden sand."
"What hast thou heard?" cried Fulvius, full of fear.
But the radiant, cheerful face, the smooth brow, the happy smile of his young wife, soon quieted his anxiety.
"I only heard that you wanted light in the darkness, and there came into my mind, as always, the word 'Church,' the name 'Johannes.'"
Fulvius was satisfied, almost joyful, because she had heard nothing of the lurking misfortune. He stroked tenderly her beautifully arched head, and said:
"And yet thou art not one of those devotees whose piety, or rather hypocrisy, peeps through the knees of their garments, worn threadbare by the altar steps."
"No; I am, alas, not pious enough. But it does not help me if I do go often to confession. Johannes always smiles when I have finished, and says: 'Thou hast only one sin; that is, Falvius.' But when I hear of darkness and light, I always think of the Church and Johannes. It is an experience of my earliest childhood," said she slowly, reflectively.
"What experience?" asked Crispus, becoming attentive.
"I had been obliged for many weeks, on account of a disease in the eyes, to wear a bandage, to remain in darkness, I know not how long. I was hardly six years old. I then heard the voice of Krates, the master, who was skilful in medicine, and had himself treated me. 'Take her with you this evening into the Basilica,' said he, 'it will not hurt her eyes; and she must be there, so says the law.'"
"What sayest thou? For what purpose?" asked the two men in breathless eagerness.