On some mornings after drinking in news of the unknown world to which her brothers journeyed every day, Pappina would follow them down the stairs, through the court, out upon the cobble–stoned street, with outstretched hands, crying:
"Take me, Filippo, Vittorio!"
"Non oggi, sorella [Not to–day, sister]," they laughed as they dodged between the people in the street.
Sometimes she would follow her brothers for some distance, only to be taken back into the courtyard of the tenement when they discovered her running after them. Pappina, who had a temper of her own, returned more often in anger than in tears.
One day a great resolve came to her as she stood watching them go away.
"I've staved at home long enough," she said to herself. "They won't take me, but I'm going; I'm surely going."
Pappina spent all the morning in adorning herself for the journey. Time and again her mother called to her:
"Pappina, bambina [baby], what are you doing?"
But Pappina, standing before a bit of looking–glass, never heard the call, she was so busy pinning on a bit of lace or a ribbon, or combing and curling her tresses.