alling so loudly for "Missipipi, Missipipi!" and clinging so
tight to Uncle Piero's legs, that, although he did not seem inclined to
do so, he was obliged to sit down on the sofa, take the child on his
knees, and repeat the old story to her.

Proud shade of the river----

After four or five "Missipipis" Signora Pasotti went home, fearing her
husband might return. Veronica wished to put the child to bed, but the
little one rebelled, and Uncle Piero interfered, saying: "Oh, leave her
here a little while longer," and he took her out to the terrace to see
if Papa and Mamma were coming.

No boat could be seen coming from Casarico. The little one ordered her
uncle to sit down, and then she climbed upon his knee.

"Why did you come?" said she. "There isn't any dinner for you, you
know."

"Then you must cook some for me. I came to stay with you."

"Always?"

"Always."

"But really always, always, always?"

"Really always."

Maria became silent and thoughtful, but presently she asked--

"What have you brought me?"

Uncle Piero drew a rubber doll from his pocket. Had Maria known, had she
been able to understand how he had gone out to buy that doll for her in
great anguish of mind, still smarting from a terrible blow, she would
have wept with pity.

"This is an ugly present," said she, recalling others he had brought
her. "And if you stay here will you never bring me any more presents?"

"No more presents."

"Go away, Uncle," said she.

He smiled.

And then Maria wanted her uncle to tell her if his uncle had brought him
presents when he was a little boy. But, though the thing was
inconceivable to Maria, this uncle of her uncle had never existed. Who
had brought him presents, then? And had he always been a good little
boy? Had he cried much? Her uncle began telling her many tales of his
childhood, things that had happened sixty years before, when people wore
wigs and pig-tails. He enjoyed talking to his little grand-niece of that
far-away time, making her share for a moment the existence of his dead
parents, and he spoke with sad gravity, as if the dear ones who had
passed away had been present, and he were speaking more for them than
for her. She fixed her wide-open eyes on his face, and gazed intently at
him. Neither he nor she heeded the flight of time, neither he nor she
thought of the boat that was coming.

And the boat came. Luisa and Franco drew near, suspecting nothing, and
believing the child t