easily guessed him to be one of the English
surveyors employed in laying out the line. His
voice was loud, and rather abrupt, like that of
one used to command; but there was something
pleasant in the ring of it.

I admitted my identity, wondering what the
new comer could want with me. He had not the
air of a mere lounger, seeking to kill time, and
hailing a fellow-countryman for the sake of a chat
in his native tongue. Besides, he had taken the
trouble, somehow, to ascertain my name.

"Then this letter is yours. I thought it must
be. You dropped it on the bridge, and a goatherd
gave it to me, so, as I had noticed you pass
by the embankment, I followed you to restore it,
and I am glad to return it to the right owner."

The letter was from Lucy, received that morning.
I was vexed at my own carelessness, for I
might have dropped it in some more public place,
and I knew that all travellers are not over-scrupulous
as to perusing the waifs and strays of
correspondence that may fall into their hands. I
therefore thanked the surveyor more heartily
than was my custom.

"No trouble at all, not worth mentioning," said
my compatriot, wiping his forehead as he glanced
around him; "it has given me a pleasant walk
and a pretty prospect. How fine that sunset
is!"

And he gazed at the deep glow of orange and
crimson burning in fast-fading splendour on
the edge of the western sky, with an enjoyment
that was evidently genuine. Before long I found
myself deep in conversation with the stranger,
whose blunt honesty of manner pleased me
better than the bearing of a more courtly person
might have done. On my side, I did not
profess to be other than I was, a poor and lonely
artist.

"Not a bad trade either, if a man's true vocation
be the brush, and he sticks to it," said the
stranger, tapping the crumbling rocks with a
switch he carried, as if to test their solidity.

"We don't generally regard it as a trade,"
said I, with something of a sneer.

"Pooh, nonsense; everything by which an
honest man makes a living, from soldiering to
shoemaking, is a trade, and only coxcombs are
ashamed to own that they are paid for their
work," broke in the stranger, very
unceremoniously; " don't let us quarrel on matters of
professional etiquette. My trade, now, is a
rougher one than yours, yet Michael Angelo
knew something about it."

I laughed, and remarked that to build a cathedral
was a nobler task than to plan a railroad.

"I don't know that," said my new acquaintance,
sturdily. "I never go about my task
in tunnel or cutting, without remembering that
every one of these iron links between town
and town, country and country, is a step
towards bridging over the great gulf that lies
between mankind and happiness and liberty. To
my mind, every tinkle of the hammers of our
platelayers is a pledge and promise of a ' good
time coming,' as the song says. No civiliser like
a railway."

I somewhat sneeringly asked if my new friend's
employer, Mr. George Graham, shared these fine
sentiments with regard to the iron ways with
which he was so busy.

The stranger's eyes twinkled.

"Oh, Graham," he said, with a dry laugh;
"Graham is obliged to have an eye to the main
chance. He can't afford to indulge his fancy
much, but must look to the balance-sheets and
steer clear of the Gazette. I sometimes think
he would prefer a safe salary to the profits he
nets, and the anxious days and sleepless nights
that go to the winning of them."

Presently I asked him what he thought of his
employer, Graham, but he was somewhat
reserved in his replies.

"A strict hand. Keeps us all to our collars.
Won't tolerate any shirking of work, on his own
part or that of others. He pays well, but he
will have the pennyworth for the penny," was all
I could gather, and I own I was disappointed. I
wanted to have a right to despise this hard
money-grubber, who stood between his gentle
sister and myself, and it would have been music
to my ears to hear him called tyrant and miser.
Independently of this, I took a great fancy to
the rugged stranger, and not the less, perhaps,
because he bluntly disagreed with my own theories
of social life, which I freely propounded to him.

"I've heard most of your arguments before,
Mr. Edwards," said he; " but I hope you won't
think me rude when I say that when a young
fellow is on bad tenns with the world, it isn't so
much the world's fault as that of the other party.
I know practice is better than precept, and I've
no right to preach, but one thing I'll say, I've
taken a liking to you, brief as our acquaintance
has been, and in spite of your wild talk, and if I
can ever be of service, I will. Perhaps you may
not think a poor engineer's help worth having,
but should you ever be really in want of a friend,
while I'm in Italy, send me a line. I'll do my
best for you, and not even ask for thanks."

I smiled, for I was in the humour to treat the
offer as a jest.

"You forget," said I, "that we are not on
equal terms. You know my name, while yours
is unknown to me."

"I'll give you an address by which your letter
is sure to reach me," said the engineer, pencilling
some words on a leaf which he tore from his
pocket-book, and handing the leaf to me; " and
now, good-by, for I must hurry back to Portici,
and pay wages and docket vouchers for a couple
of hours at the least."

He was gone, and it was not until I had
watched his disappearing figure across the
olive grove, that I thought of looking at the
address he had given me. The words he had
pencilled were merely these: " S. D., care of
Burbidge and Styles, English Bank, Via Stretta,
Naples." My new acquaintance had not revealed
his name after all. For a moment I was