bounded at their extremity by the level line of the measureless plains of America, like the horizon at sea. The city appeared infinite to him; it seemed to him that he might wander for days or weeks, seeing other streets like these, on one hand and on the other, and that all America must be covered with them. He looked attentively at the names of the streets: strange names which cost him an effort to read. At every fresh street, he felt his heart beat, at the thought that it might be the one he was in search of. He stared at all the women, with the thought that he might meet his mother. He caught sight of one in front of him who made his blood leap; he overtook her: she was a negro. And quickening his pace, he walked on and on. On arriving at one cross-street, he read, and stood as though rooted to the sidewalk. It was the street of los Artes. He turned into it, and saw the number 117; his cousin's shop was No. 175. He quickened his pace still more, and almost ran; at No. 171 he had to pause to regain his breath. And he said to himself, “O my mother! my mother! Is it really true that I shall see you in another moment?” He ran on; he arrived at a little haberdasher's shop. This was it. He stepped up close to it. He saw a woman with gray hair and spectacles.
“What do you want, boy?” she asked him in Spanish.
“Is not this,” said the boy, making an effort to utter a sound, “the shop of Francesco Merelli?”
“Francesco Merelli is dead,” replied the woman in Italian.
The boy felt as though he had received a blow on his breast.
