He was out of sight in a moment, disappearing into a wine shop. They heard his boisterous laugh within. Marta took Pappina's hand in hers.
"Carissima," she said, "you are so hungry and so tired! Guiseppe is not himself. He forgets."
A new light shone in Pappina's eyes. She was given new strength. This time she would sing, not from fear of Guiseppe, perhaps not from love of Marta. She was just a worn–out, tired little child whose tender age should have ensured her protection at home—only seven years old, but forced to battle with the world, seeking refuge through her songs from storms and hunger, a weatherbeaten bird. For her there was now no place called home, no place to lay her tired little head. She knew that to sing and dance meant money, and that she and Marta were hungry and in need of money for supper. She took her tambourine from Marta, threw it high in the air, caught it, and began to dance.
The gaping crowd that had watched her efforts before stood almost aghast as she swayed and tipped and toed, till one would have thought her little feet would refuse to take another step. Then, pausing a moment to take breath, she started to sing the rollicking song Guiseppe had just taught her—with gestures and grimaces, stopping to speak, dashing into song, now laughing so infectiously that every bystander joined with her.
She finished the song in an uproar of laughter, applause, and shouts of "Bravo, bravo!"
The enthusiastic listeners fairly threw soldi at her. Pappina wanted them for supper for Marta and herself. They had tramped all day with but a bite of bread in the early morning. Pappina's haggard little face glowed with pleasure as she took the well–filled tambourine to Marta.
"See, Marta, yours to–night—not Guiseppe's—yours!"
"No, not mine; it is yours alone, carissima."
"Then it is yours and mine. Come, let's go. Macaroni, Marta! Hurry, dear Marta."