“When did he die?”
“Eh? quite a while ago,” replied the woman. “Months ago. His affairs were in a bad state, and he ran away. They say he went to Bahia Blanca, very far from here. And he died just after he reached there. The shop is mine.”
The boy turned pale.
Then he said quickly, “Merelli knew my mother; my mother who was at service with Signer Mequinez. He alone could tell me where she is. I have come to America to find my mother. Merelli sent her our letters. I must find my mother.”
“Poor boy!” said the woman; “I don't know. I can ask the boy in the courtyard. He knew the young man who did Merelli's errands'. He may be able to tell us something.”
She went to the end of the shop and called the lad, who came at once. “Tell me,” asked the shop-woman, “do you remember whether Merelli's young man went occasionally to carry letters to a woman in service, in the house of a country-man?”
“To Signor Mequinez,” replied the lad; “yes, signora, sometimes he did. At the end of the street of los Artes.”
“Ah! thanks, signora!” cried Marco. “Tell me the number; don't you know it? Send some one with me; come with me without delay; I have a few soldi left.”
And he said this with so much warmth, that without waiting for the woman to request him, the boy replied. “Come,” and at once set out at a rapid pace.
They went almost at a run, without saying a word,
