Domitia by Sabine Baring-Gould — Read

In the old home of Gabii, under the tender care of Euphrosyne and in the soothing company of Glyceria, little by little, stage by stage, Domitia recovered.

There was a horrible past to which no reference might be made. The true British slave, Eboracus, was ever at hand to help-when needed. Never a day, never half a day, but his honest face appeared at the door to inquire after his dear lady, and as her senses came flickering back, it was he to whom she clung to take her in his arms into the trellised walk, or when stronger to lead her where she could pick violets for Glyceria, and to pile about the feet of the little statue of the Good Shepherd. He took her a row on the lake and let her fish-he found nests of young birds and brought them to her; and all at once disclosed great powers of story-telling; he told marvellous British tales as to a little child, of the ploughing of Hu Cadarn, of Ceridwen and her cauldron. And he would sing-he fashioned himself a harp, of British shape, and sang as he accompanied himself, but his ballads were all in the Celtic tongue that Domitia could not understand-nevertheless it soothed and pleased her to listen to his music.