It was not a particularly Italian face--that is, though an Italian had served for its model, he had been one of the fair-haired, clear-complexioned, blue-eyed men whom one encounters, not unfrequently, but always with a thrill of surprise, in all parts of Italy, especially in Rome or its surrounding country, in the most unexpected way, amidst the swarthy children of a blazing sun and a fertile earth. There was nothing particularly Southern any more than particularly Northern in its features: there was a broad, rather rugged forehead; level eyebrows; a nose of no particular order, unless it might be called truculent; a mouth whose lips were hidden somewhat under a little rough moustache; the expression was the expression of the labouring man, full of life and strength, and not averse to his work, all the world over. Signor Giuseppe stood quite still for what seemed to Minna a very long time, gazing in absolute silence at this figure, measuring it from head to foot in its strength, its vigour, earnestness, and even brutality. At last, ‘That is your own--all your own?’ he asked. ‘Yes--and yet no; nothing is quite our own. It was just a coincidence that brought it about.’ ‘Tell me about it. But first let me guess. It is hardly finished enough yet to tell its own tale clearly. He is a working man with a spade. He has been pausing in his work and wiping his brow. What is that stuff into which he has been digging?’ ‘Coal--engine coal,’ said Minna rather nervously. ‘Ah-h!’ Signor Giuseppe nodded his head. ‘Coal--bene! Well, what is to become of the coal?’ ‘Here,’ said Minna, pointing to a lump of clay as yet shapeless, near to which the workman’s shirt was cast on the ground--‘here is to be--when it is done--one of those strong coarse wicker baskets which he is filling with coal. Each basket, when it is filled, will be carried to the tender of the locomotive and emptied into it. He is the stoker. He is helping because there is haste. I saw it one day when I was rambling about near the station. I had turned aside to have a look at my favourite bit of the Agger of Servius which is preserved there; you know, signore, what I mean: I may as well confess my debts. A writer of my country, a celebrated historian, who also loves very much many things connected with your country, has written, amongst other things, a little article on “The Walls of Rome,” which I have read so often that I almost know it by heart. Are you tired, or do you want to hear the whole history of this figure?’ ‘I want to hear it all. Tell me about it.’ Minna took up a volume, bearing traces of having been much read, which lay on a stool near her work. It was the ‘Historical and Architectural Sketches’ of Freeman, and it opened of itself at the place she spoke of. She read, translating rapidly into Italian as she did so.