e from what?"

"From the enemy," Rafael answered, with another laugh.

"I know that, of course," said Edith; "but Rome has had so many
enemies that I can never keep the different ones separated in my
mind."

Mrs. Sprague overheard the conversation, and said, "That is one reason
why I brought you to Italy, Edith. I want you to understand all this
Roman history, so that you will be able to pass your examinations when
you return to school."

Rafael was interested to hear something about the American school
examinations, and Edith told him of her troubles with history.

Then Rafael told of the difficulty he always had in remembering
whether George Lincoln lived before Abraham Washington, or afterwards;
and while Edith was explaining to him his mistake in the names, they
arrived at one of the many olive-groves that dot the Tuscan hillsides.

"I think the vineyards are much prettier," said Edith. "But the
twisted black trunks, and the gray branches of the olive trees are
very picturesque," she added.

Boy-like, Rafael began at once to make friends with the farmer, and
soon learned the whole process of crushing the oil from the ripe black
fruit.

The farmer led them all to the sheds where the great stones were set
up to crush the olives. He showed them just how the work was done, and
then explained about the different grades of oil.

"We buy a great deal of your Italian oil in America," said Mrs.
Sprague; and when Rafael had repeated this in Italian to the farmer,
the man went into the house and soon returned with two bottles of his
very best oil, which he presented to Edith and her mother.

"We Italians sell more oil than any other country," he said proudly to
Rafael, "and we use a great quantity ourselves. It is much better than
butter for cooking."

Then he showed them the barrels of mammoth green olives which he had
sold on the trees to an American dealer the month before, and which
were soon to be shipped to Genoa.

Mrs. Sprague looked at the setting sun, and advised that they hurry on
to the next town, where they were to spend the night; and Rafael
rejoiced once more in the speed of the automobile.

But Edith was tired, and was glad to reach a comfortable bed in Siena,
and lay her head upon the pillow filled with live-geese feathers;
after which she knew nothing more of Italy, until the next morning's
sun wakened her, and she began another day's journey over the roads of
Tuscany.

CHAPTER XI

A