“Will you give me a little piece of bread, signora? See, I have money,” said Natale, showing her a handful of Mr. Grantly’s copper coins in his open palm.
“A bit of bread you shall have, to be sure, and your soldi you shall keep, little one,” the good-natured creature promptly answered, and while the children left their play and gathered about Natale, with friendly eyes, their mother disappeared into the very small and dusky shop behind.
“There, sit down and eat,” she said, returning with a hunk of bread and a generous lump of cheese on a coarse plate in her hand.
As Natale received the plate and moved rather lamely toward the dripping fountain in the shade, the children ran ahead, and one filled a rusty tin cup with the cold water and had it ready for Natale by the time he reached the mossy brink of the fountain.
These little ones of the road, wild and rude enough in their play, were well used to offering the “cup of cold water” to the passing wayfarer, and Natale’s thirsty throat gulped the draught gratefully.
There was something about the child which arrested the attention of the woman more than the ordinary passer-by often did, and she also stood watching Natale breakfast hungrily.
He was shy and downcast, fearing difficult questions, and as soon as the last crumb of bread and cheese had disappeared he got to his feet, setting the empty plate on the margin of the fountain.
“Thank you, signora, and good-by,” he said, and was off.
“No, but wait!” she cried, laying her hand on his shrinking shoulder. “You have eaten my bread; now answer my questions. What is your name, picino,[7] and where are you going?”
“Down the road,” was the shyly spoken answer to the last question, with a quiet waiving of the first. “Please let me go, signora. It is already late, and I must hasten.”