A boy about twelve years of age came forward. I was struck by his strange looks. Even now, as I write, I can see him as I saw him then. He had no body, so to speak, for he seemed all legs and head. His great head was out of all proportion. Built so, he could not have been called handsome, yet there was something in his face which attracted one strangely, an expression of sadness and gentleness and, yes ... hopelessness. His large eyes held your own with sympathy. "You are sure he will not be back for two hours?" asked Vitalis. "Quite sure, Signor. That will be dinner time, and no one ever serves dinner but Signor Garofoli." "Well, if he comes in before, tell him that Vitalis will be back in two hours." "Very well, Signor." I was about to follow Vitalis, when he stopped me. "Stay here," he said; "you can rest. "Oh, I'll come back," he added, reassuringly, noticing my look of anxiety. "Are you Italian?" asked the boy, when Vitalis' heavy step could no longer be heard on the stairs. "No," I replied in French, "I'm French." "That's a good thing." "What! you like the French better than the Italians?" "Oh, no, I was thinking of you when I said 'that's a good thing,' because if you were Italian you would probably come here to work for Signor Garofoli, and I'd be sorry for you." "Is he wicked, then?" The boy did not reply, but the look he gave me spoke more than words. As though he did not wish to continue the conversation, he went over to the fireplace. On a shelf in the fireplace was an immense earthenware saucepan. I drew nearer to the fire to warm myself, and I noticed that the pot had something peculiar about it. The lid, through which a straight tube projected to allow the steam to escape, was fixed on the saucepan on one side with a hinge and on the other with a padlock. "Why is that closed with a padlock?" I asked, inquisitively. "So that I shan't take any of the soup. I have to look after it, but the boss doesn't trust me." I could not help smiling. "You laugh," he said sadly, "because you think that I'm a glutton. Perhaps, if you were in my place, you'd do the same as I've done. I'm not a pig, but I'm famished, and the smell of the soup as it comes out through the spout makes me still hungrier." "Doesn't Signor Garofoli give you enough to eat?" "He starves us...." "Oh...."