papers no one had presented herself or sent any word. And it could not have happened otherwise, for this reason if for no other: that with the idea of sparing the good name of her family, which she fancied she was discrediting by becoming a servant, the good woman had not given her real name to the Argentine family.
Several months more passed by with no news. The father and sons were in consternation; the youngest was oppressed by a melancholy which he could not conquer. What was to be done? To whom should they have recourse? The father's first thought had been to set out, to go to America in search of his wife. But his work? Who would support his sons? And neither could the eldest son go, for he had just then begun to earn something, and he was necessary to the family. In this anxiety they lived, repeating each day the same sad speeches, or gazing at each other in silence; when, one evening, Marco, the youngest, declared with decision, “I am going to America to look for my mother.”
His father shook his head sorrowfully and made no reply. It was an affectionate thought, but an impossible thing. To make a journey to America, which required a month alone, at the age of thirteen! But the boy patiently insisted. He persisted that day, the day after, every day, with great calmness, reasoning with the good sense of a man.
“Others have gone there,” he said; “and smaller boys than I, too. Once on board the ship, I shall get there like anybody else. Once arrived there, I have only to hunt up our cousin's shop. There are plenty
