"Francesco Merelli is dead," replied the woman in Italian.

The boy felt as though he had received a blow on his breast.

"When did he die?"

"Eh? quite a while ago," replied the woman. "Months ago. His affairs
were in a bad state, and he ran away. They say he went to Bahia Blanca,
very far from here. And he died just after he reached there. The shop
is mine."

The boy turned pale.

Then he said quickly, "Merelli knew my mother; my mother who was at
service with Signor Mequinez. He alone could tell me where she is. I
have come to America to find my mother. Merelli sent her our letters. I
must find my mother."

"Poor boy!" said the woman; "I don't know. I can ask the boy in the
courtyard. He knew the young man who did Merelli's errands. He may be
able to tell us something."

She went to the end of the shop and called the lad, who came instantly.
"Tell me," asked the shopwoman, "do you remember whether Merelli's young
man went occasionally to carry letters to a woman in service, in the
house of the _son of the country_?"

"To Signor Mequinez," replied the lad; "yes, signora, sometimes he did.
At the end of the street _del los Artes_."

"Ah! thanks, signora!" cried Marco. "Tell me the number; don't you know
it? Send some one with me; come with me instantly, my boy; I have still
a few soldi."

And he said this with so much warmth, that without waiting for the woman
to request him, the boy replied, "Come," and at once set out at a rapid
pace.

They proceeded almost at a run, without uttering a word, to the end of
the extremely long street, made their way into the entrance of a little
white house, and halted in front of a handsome iron gate, through which
they could see a small yard, filled with vases of flowers. Marco gave a
tug at the bell.

A young lady made her appearance.

"The Mequinez family lives here, does it not?" demanded the lad
anxiously.

"They did live here," replied the young lady, pronouncing her Italian in
Spanish fashion. "Now we, the Zeballos, live here."

"And where have the Mequinez gone?" asked Marco, his heart palpitating.

"They have gone to Cordova."

"Cordova!" exclaimed Marco. "Where is Cordova? And the person whom they
had in their service? The woman, my mother! Their servant was my mother!
Have they taken my mother away, too?"

The young lady looked at him and said: "I do not know. Perhaps my father
may know, for he knew them when they went away. Wait a moment."

She ra