“And leave the circo?” Natale asked with a gasp.
“Yes, you could not go to school unless you should stop in one place, you know.”
“And not travel about with the horses and wagon any more, and leave Nonna?”
“Of course, Natale. But she is only asking you about it, carino, so do not look so troubled.”
Natale laughed then, and happily.
“She wanted to find out how much I love the circo!” he exclaimed. “Please tell her, signora. You know, how we all love the circo!”
“I think I do, Natale. He does not want to go to school, Mrs. Bishop,” turning to the eager old lady, “because he loves his life with the circus and his own people too much.”
“And he does not wish to leave his grandmother,” chimed in Betty who had very cleverly picked up a good deal of Italian during a winter and summer in Italy, and all grandmothers are Nonnas in that land.
Mrs. Bishop was silent for a moment, her gaze taking in every detail of Natale’s little figure standing sturdily before her, dusty shoes, and rough peasant leggings, velveteen trousers, faded blue blouse, and rumpled curls, with the old hat held in one sun-burned hand. His face was not so clean as usual now, and there were tired circles about his eyes. It had been a long, exciting summer’s day.
“Children—especially boys—do not know what is best for themselves,” she said presently, bending her brows, but not in the least frightening Natale, “and I am not going to give up my plan, for this baby’s nonsense. Why, he cannot be over eight years old, at the most.”