To be sure, they told Giulia that the little signorina must belong to rich English, and she would get a reward; and that she ought to go down to the town and inquire at the hotels and the villas.

A good deal passed through Dorothy's mind as she lay in the arms of the rough though kindly Italian woman. How long ago it seemed since the morning, since she had been angry with Baby Bob, and had refused to go to Colla. Oh, how she wished she had gone now. How she longed to say she was sorry, to kiss Baby Bob, to throw her arms round Irene, and to tell mother she would never, never be naughty again! Convulsive sobs shook her, and she clung to the kind woman's neck, praying and entreating to be taken home.

But where was home? No one knew, and no one could understand her; and at last, worn out with crying, Dorothy fell fast asleep.

Neighbours came in and out, and looked curiously at the little golden-haired signorina, whose head seemed to make a spot of light in the dark dwelling.

"They will miss her, and search for her," the neighbours said, "and then you will get a reward, Giulia. She is like an angel with the light round her head in the window in the church."

"She is like a sorrowful little lost kid bleating for its mother," said Giulia.

So the hours went on, and the sunset gleamed from behind the old church, and brightened the grey walls of the houses in the square, and made the windows glitter and shine like stars.

"DOROTHY FELL FAST ASLEEP."
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But Dorothy did not wake, and still Giulia sat patiently with her in her strong brown arms, and crooned over her the words of a hush-a-bye with which the dark-eyed boy, who stood notching a stick by the open fireplace, had been lulled to sleep in his turn—

"Ninni, ninni, nanna,
Allegrezza di la mamma!
Addormentati, addormentati,
Oh, mia bella!"