“You have some _superstiti_ here?” I inquired of the porter’s wife, who came out of the little den where she lived and cooked (chiefly garlic it appeared), for her husband and children. “Oh yes, poor people! You will find them on the second floor. You are not the first who has asked for them.” She stopped and looked at me curiously. “Excuse me, you too have perhaps come to inquire for news of some relative down there?” “No, no, thank Heaven! only to ask if I can do anything for them.” “So much the better! There is enough to do.” The porter’s wife nodded and went back to her cooking. I climbed two long flights of the cheap, stark building and rang a strident bell. The thin varnished pine door was opened a crack, and a handsome slatternly woman looked out. When I asked to see the _profughi_, she stood aside and let me pass. In the entry I met two people coming out, a shabby man with a hard dry face like an eagle’s and a very beautiful young girl with a waxen complexion. When they heard me ask for the _profughi_ they stopped and looked at me so intently that I paused and looked helplessly back at them. “You have asked to see the _profughi_,” said the man in a harsh dry voice; “do you possibly know something of them--or of others--down there--?” “Nothing. And you?--do you know anything of Messina?” “I?” laughed the eagle-faced man drearily, “I am of Messina. This one also,” he looked at the girl, “though I never saw her till today. We go here, there, together, asking news--her people are all there and mine.” “Come,” said the girl, “do not let us waste time.” She spoke with authority as one used to giving orders and having them obeyed. I noticed then how sumptuously she was dressed. They went down the stairs together, a strange pair, the shabby eagle-faced man and the young lovely lady. I never saw the girl again, or knew whether she found those for whom she sought. “It is the truth that I have not had five minutes to comb myself today,” said the _padrona_, who had opened the door, a dark woman of the noble Trasteverine type. She smoothed her magnificent black hair that lay in full natural waves over her low forehead, and pulled up the collar of her white jacket to hide her beautiful bronze throat. “Believe me, Signora, that blessed bell has never stopped ringing. Holy Apostles! One would think that the Messinesi were different from other Christians, that they had two heads, everybody must have a look at them.” “I am sorry to disturb you,” I began.