When the time for the administration of baptism arrived, it was indeed but a dreary celebration that it introduced. Deep in the bowels of the earth the waters of a subterranean stream had been gathered into a square well or cistern, from four to five feet deep. They were clear, indeed, but cold and bleak, if we may use the expression, in their subterranean bath, formed out of the tufa, or volcanic rock. A long flight of steps led down to this rude baptistery, a small ledge at the side sufficed for the minister and the candidate, who was thrice immersed in the purifying waters.
The whole remains to this day, just as it was then, except that over the water is now to be seen a painting of St. John baptizing our Lord, added probably a century or two later.
Immediately after Baptism followed Confirmation, and then the neophyte, or new-born child of the Church, after due instruction, was admitted for the first time to the table of his Lord, and nourished with the Bread of angels.
It was not till late on Easter-day that Fabiola returned to her villa; and a long and silent embrace was her first greeting of Miriam. Both were so happy, so blissful, so fully repaid for all that they had been to one another for months, that no words could give expression to their feelings. Fabiola’s grand idea and absorbing pride, that day was, that now she had risen to the level of her former slave: not in virtue, not in beauty of character, not in greatness of mind, not in heavenly wisdom, not in merit before God; oh! no; in all this she felt herself infinitely her inferior. But as a child of God, as heiress to an eternal kingdom, as a living member of the body of Christ, as admitted to a share in all His mercies, to all the price of His redemption, as a new creature in Him, she felt that she was equal to Miriam, and with happy glee she told her so.
Never had she been so proud of splendid garment as she was of the white robe, which she had received as she came out of the font, and which she had to wear for eight days.
But a merciful Father knows how to blend our joys and sorrows, and sends us the latter when He has best prepared us for them. In that warm embrace which we have mentioned, she for the first time noticed the shortened breath, and heaving chest of her dear sister. She would not dwell upon it in her thoughts, but sent to beg Dionysius to come on the morrow. That evening they all kept their Easter banquet together; and Fabiola felt happy to preside at Miriam’s side over a table, at which reclined or sat her own converted slaves, and those of Agnes’s household, all of whom she had retained. She never remembered having enjoyed so delightful a supper.
Early next morning, Miriam called Fabiola to her side, and with a fond, caressing manner, which she had never before displayed, said to her:
“My dear sister, what will you do, when I have left you?”
Poor Fabiola was overpowered with grief. “Are you then going to leave me? I had hoped we should live for ever as sisters together. But if you wish to leave Rome, may I not accompany you, at least to nurse you, to serve you?”
Miriam smiled, but a tear was in her eye, as taking her sister’s hand, she pointed up towards heaven. Fabiola understood her, and said: “O, no, no, dearest sister. Pray to God, who will refuse you nothing, that I may not lose you. It is selfish, I know; but what can I do without you? And now too, that I have learnt how much they who reign with Christ can do for us by intercession, I will pray to Agnes[230] and Sebastian, to interpose for me, and avert so great a calamity.